


doublethink

by postmortem protegee (midnightRequiem)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adultery, Bad Decisions, F/M, Love Triangles, Magical Realism, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 03:11:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4288518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightRequiem/pseuds/postmortem%20protegee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the days following the end of the war, Harry and Hermione return to Hogwarts for their eighth year and find that post-traumatic stress disorder is much worse for wizards than it is for Muggles. </p><p>Additionally, normal school-related events transpire, and they are completely unequipped for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. august 31st, 1998

In his dreams, Harry relived the Battle of Hogwarts. 

He was looking into Fred Weasley's glassy, lifeless eyes, his own terrified face reflected back at him twofold in them. He couldn't tear himself away from that dead stare. He wanted to fall forever into that void, to give himself over completely to the idea of not existing anymore, of being beyond pain or joy—

An explosion blasted overhead. With chunks of the ceiling raining down, Harry was forced to break away from his fallen friend, diving just as a mass of stone fell where he'd been kneeling. Fred was lost in the ensuing dust, and Harry left it that way. More rubble fell from above, coating him in plaster and grime as he reluctantly turned away from the body. 

He winced as a student in Ravenclaw colors was caught under the deluge, both of her legs mangled under a hefty piece of stone. He wanted to help her—wanted to do anything, really, but think about Fred Weasley simply ceasing to exist—but combatants from both sides of the fight were beginning to recover from the sudden disintegration of the ceiling and the curses were starting to fly once more. 

A jet of green light shot over his shoulder, missed him by centimeters, and shattered the window behind him. Harry, still half-kneeling, kept low, army-crawling to the end of the ruined corridor as more curses flew over him. He felt them like streaks of hot air, pressing so close that his skin warmed up, but he made it to the end of the hall before any of them found their mark and ran. 

A staircase at the corridor's end served as his escape. Getting hastily to his feet, he started down the steps two at a time, head pounding. Incongruities began to raise red flags in his muddled brain. Where were Ron and Hermione? Weren't they supposed to be with him, fighting the same fight? They had Horcruxes to worry about, the snake and the diadem and then Voldemort himself—

His foot landed on a step that was slick and wet and he tumbled to the landing, pushing himself up to look back at the source of the liquid. With a horrified moan, he realized that he had slipped in the blood of a Hogwarts house elf, its body crumpled halfway up the stairs. 

It was ghastly, it was cruel, but he _had_ to keep moving, had to finish this once and for all. He got up on shaking legs and ran, stumbling down staircase after staircase until he was bursting into the entrance hall.

Death Eaters, Order members, magical creatures, and Hogwarts students alike were dueling viciously when he arrived, barely able to find space to fight in the crowded room. Still, even with the mass of fighters, Harry's eyes fell immediately on Lupin and Tonks, both holding their own against their opponents. 

Somehow, Harry knew in his gut that they were about to die. 

Tonks went first, brought down by Fenrir Greyback. Her speed and agility, both in movement and spellwork, kept him on the ropes for a time, but he made up for his lack of agility with sheer ferocity. He matched every blow. His fangs and claws barely missed her each time he drew in close. 

He found a window soon, and, digging his yellow claws into the ruined marble floor, he launched himself at her. With a wild swipe of his claws, Greyback tore into her throat. 

The blood was bright and dark at the same time; it splashed across Harry's vision like a strobe light, and he felt her name die on his lips. It was too late to do anything, even to shout for her. He'd failed to save her. He'd just stood there, useless, childlike. 

Lupin followed soon after. He had his duel with Rodolphus Lestrange in hand, matching him spell for spell, but it only took one break in concentration to end him. Lupin turned to his wife, saw his life with her shatter under another werewolf's claws, and then he was snuffed out. A Killing Curse arced from the end of Lestrange's wand and struck Lupin squarely in the ribs. In a flash of green, the final Marauder fell dead. 

The other battles in the hall did not stop, but even from a distance, Harry heard Remus Lupin's body hit the floor, saw the knowledge he wore like a cloak seem to die in his eyes, and it was all too much. Harry fell hard to his knees, shutting down. He was only a kid—just a stupid, weak, kid, and he didn't deserve this, didn't deserve to see everyone he cared about die for him like this—

_"Master Potter!"_

And just like that, the dream ended.

Harry opened his eyes. Even without his glasses, he immediately recognized the blurry room around him as he bedroom at Grimmauld Place.

"Wha'?" he mumbled hoarsely. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, looking for the source of the voice. 

A very annoyed Kreacher was standing next to his bed, arms crossed and expression sour. "Master Potter was shouting in his sleep again. Screaming the names of dead men and tossing in his sheets." 

Harry winced, the events of his dream coming back to him all at once. "Sorry, Kreacher. Didn't mean to wake you." 

"Kreacher was already awake," he said haughtily. "It is nearly morning time and he was in the kitchen. When Mister Potter is done having his fits, he is welcome to have his breakfast in the dining room." 

With a crack, the house elf disappeared. Harry didn't miss him too terribly.

Fumbling a bit, Harry put on his glasses and sat up fully, glancing around what had once been his godfather's room. It was exactly as teenage Sirius had left it: Muggle posters of women adorned the walls, mixed in with clippings of motorcycles and Gryffindor-colored banners. A single photo of the Marauders smiled at him from the far wall. 

The remnants of his nightmare still clung to him, dragging his mind back to what he was trying so desperately to forget. He kicked himself for falling into the dream's trap. He should have known that it was all in his head when Remus and Tonks were killed; he hadn't seen them die in the real battle, only stumbled upon their bodies in the Great Hall after the fact. He wasn't sure which scenario, real or fake, was worse. 

No use dwelling now. He had a busy day ahead of him. It was August 31st, and he needed to stop by Diagon Alley; his final year at Hogwarts would begin tomorrow, and he needed to do a fair bit of shopping first. 

He dressed in comfortable Muggle clothes and then made his way downstairs, slipping his wand into the holster sewn into the inside of his jacket. Dawn had not quite arrived yet, making the Black residence especially gloomy as Harry tracked his way to the dining room. 

Kreacher had already set out breakfast and disappeared again by the time Harry sat down at the head of the table, absently taking a sip of water as his eyes fell on a pile of letters next to his cup. 

"They arrived just before you woke, Master Potter," Kreacher said behind him, startling him. The damn house elf had a knack for appearing silently when he wanted to. "One has the Hogwarts seal, and two more are from your Mister Weasley and Miss Granger." 

Kreacher left him once more. Pleasantly surprised, Harry took up the letter with the Hogwarts crest and opened it, strangely reminded of his first time opening a Hogwarts letter. 

_Mister Potter:_

_We at Hogwarts are delighted to hear that you will be returning for your final year. Knowing that it's optional, your decision to expand your mind and challenge yourself is admirable and well-advised._

_However, considering the circumstances of the last year and the recently-resolved war, the curriculum for "eighth-year" students will be slightly altered from that of average seventh-year students. It should account for all that was taught by the hand of war and all that revoked by it._

_Due to these peculiar arrangements, "eighth-year" students like yourself are asked not to purchase any textbooks, as they are under consideration and will be provided by Hogwarts when the decision is made. You will need no other supplies for your final year apart from your usual classroom necessities._

_The Hogwarts Express will depart from Platform 9 3/4 at eleven o'clock on September first._

_Good day,_

_Minerva McGonagall_  
Headmistress  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry 

Harry felt like a kid again, preparing for another year at Hogwarts as if there would be many more to come. With the realization that this truly was his last year of schooling, the letter seemed to grow heavier in his hand. He set it aside and picked up the next piece of mail: a short note from Ron. 

_Harry,_

_I've been helping George sort things out in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes these past few weeks. It's been pretty rough without, you know, Fred, but school's about to start so business is really picking up._

_The point is, I'm in Diagon Alley. Ginny's here too, though I'm sure you know that. Hermione's arriving around noon. Meet us here if you weren't planning on it already. You really ought to get out of that dirty old house._

_Ron_

Harry paled at the bit about Ginny. Yes, he _should_ have known where Ginny was; they were dating after all. Sort of. He wasn't sure how to explain it, but the dynamics of their relationship felt strange now that the war was over. There'd been passion and heat when lives were on the line, but all of that was over now and Harry just needed to get back on his feet. He had to admit that he hadn't paid Ginny the attention he should have over the summer months. 

It didn't help that he'd turned down her offer to stay at the Burrow in favor of the house at Grimmauld Place. At the time, he'd surprised them both with the decision, but he was glad he'd made it. The house was mercifully quiet, an island in its own right, and few people knew about it, meaning few visitors knocking on his door. 

As happy as he was with his stay at Grimmauld Place, he would have to face up to its consequences with Ginny sooner or later. He chose later and took up a lengthier letter from Hermione. 

_Dear Harry,_

_Professor McGonagall's just told me that you'll be coming back to Hogwarts; I'm so glad! I was afraid I'd be all alone. Ron's not coming back, as you probably could have guessed. You know him. He could barely stand school when it_ was _mandatory._

_I do hope you're alright over there, although I can understand needing some space from everyone... Sometimes I wish I'd taken a bit of a holiday myself. It gets to be overwhelming, doesn't it? The idea that we're finally safe? I feel like I'm stuck in war-mode sometimes, like I'm not fit for peacetime anymore._

_That's silly, I know. I won't bother you with that nonsense, promise. The reason I'm writing is to let you know that I'll be stopping into Diagon Alley to pick up some school things around noon, and I'd love for you to come along. Ron and Ginny will be there of course, and it's been weeks since we've all been together, so I hope you'll make an effort to show._

_See you soon._

_Love,  
Hermione_

Harry reread the middle paragraph of Hermione's letter three times before he set it aside, shocked by how deeply her words resonated within him. Yes, he did feel overwhelmed; yes, he did feel like he was still trapped in wartime. The dream he'd suffered through this morning was proof enough.

Perhaps his friends were right. He _did_ need to get out of the old house already. If anything, at least he had the feeling that Hermione might be able to help him when he confided his nightmares and weariness that he'd shouldered since May. Dropping the post into a drawer, he finished his breakfast and prepared himself for the day ahead. 

He made a mental checklist of what to buy, and after a quick perusal of his belongings, he realized he had virtually nothing that would be of use to him at Hogwarts. No parchment, ink, or quills could be found in his sparse belongings; he lacked apothecary supplies and spare Astronomy charts. He gave up on his checklist and decided that it was time to refill on everything, including new school robes and uniforms. He'd grown plenty since he'd last worn his Hogwarts clothes. 

After bidding Kreacher goodbye, Harry used the recently-connected fireplace in the sitting room to Floo to Diagon Alley, arriving in the Leaky Cauldron among a swarm of other patrons. The day before Hogwarts was always a chaotic day for magical marketplaces, and this year was no exception. Last-minute purchases for the coming term were evident in the wide variety of items he saw strewn across the pub's tables. 

Harry took advantage of the disarray and slipped outside without causing a stir. His celebrity status had only increased since the final battle, to his dismay, and he could rarely step outside without being assaulted with words of praise and gratitude from fellow witches and wizards. Harry appreciated the sentiment, of course, but he also valued his privacy and anonymity, so he did his best to keep his head down out in public. 

It was only just past ten. With two hours to kill before his meeting with the others, he attended to his shopping: Scribbulus was his ideal stop for parchment and writing utensils, and then Wiseacre's supplied him star and moon charts. He spent the longest time in Madame Malkin's shop, as she had to fit him for new robes and uniforms; while being measured, a boy of about eleven had looked strangely at him and asked, "Aren't you a bit old to be going to Hogwarts?" Harry had found no answer to this. 

Harry stowed all of his purchases in the moleskin pouch Hagrid had gifted him, aided by an Undetectable Extension Charm, and began making his way up the street to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, which he could see, hear, and smell from some distance. It was nearly twelve now; the others were expecting him.

Witches and wizards, particularly those around Hogwarts age, streamed in and out of the shop in droves. Harry was reminded of the shop’s prosperity before the war’s final stage, and for a moment, he was glad to see things were running smoothly again. When he stepped inside, the feeling fell away rapidly.

He knew, instantly, that the store wasn’t the same. The products were; there were no new Weasley twin creations, but all of the old ones were certainly in stock. It wasn’t anything to do with the shop itself. It was the spirit of the place; one of its founders was gone, and no amount of laughter or merriment within its walls could change that. The shoppers moved from display to display, oblivious, but Harry knew. He felt it. 

Heavy with grief, he pushed through the crowds until he found Ron, Hermione, and Ginny standing by the register, which was manned by George and his girlfriend Angelina. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, but Harry could still see the ghost of Fred’s passing in their smiles.

“Harry!” Ron barked. He waved him over, and when Harry joined them, Ron ushered them all into the back storeroom. It was mercifully quiet and away from the crowds. 

Ron clapped Harry on the shoulder. “Blimey, Harry, feels like I haven’t seen you in years. It’s about time you showed your face to the world again!” 

“Oh, leave him alone, Ron,” Hermione chided, though unable to stifle her smile in Harry’s direction. “It’s been a long summer. We’re just glad you’re back, Harry.” 

“Agreed,” Ginny said, giving him a look that was loaded with some double meaning he couldn’t work out fully. 

Harry gave them a half-smile. “It’s good to be back, I think.” 

“He thinks,” Ron repeated, rolling his eyes. “Listen, mate, I’ve been thinking, too, and I’ve got a really great idea for you: _Don’t_ go back to Hogwarts!” 

“Really, Ron, not this again—”

“It’s just not fair!” Ron cried, cutting off Hermione’s reprimand. “You lot get to have Harry, so you can’t complain. I’m stuck out on my own, no mates, just roughing it out here all alone—”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “If you had just gotten off your lazy arse and decided to come back to school, this wouldn’t be a problem.” 

“‘Come back to school,’ right, like it’s the easiest thing in the world,” Ron scoffed, crossing his arms. “What’s the use in me going back to school? People are throwing jobs at us, anyway, since we helped kill You-Know-Who. I’d rather take a year off and let things settle.” 

He had a point. Harry had received post from nearly every department in the Ministry offering him some job or the other; more than a few overzealous employees suggested that he run for Minister of Magic, too. And that was just the Ministry; there were countless other magical corporations and businesses that had half-begged to have the Boy Who Lived on board. Choosing Hogwarts instead had been the best decision Harry had made all summer. 

“Don’t get too comfortable, Ron. Maybe people will forget how much you helped in the war come a year’s time and you’ll be really wishing you had a few NEWTs to show for it....” 

Ron’s face screwed up as he considered Hermione’s unassailable logic, but his mind was made up. “No. No, no, I’m not budging. I bloody deserve a year off after what You-Know-Who put us through. You can just keep your NEWTs and your eighth-year to yourself, I’m not having it.” 

Hermione sighed, indicating that this discussion had been had many times over, and gave Harry a shrug that said “What can you do? It’s Ron.” 

“That’s enough blabber about Hogwarts,” said Ron, deliberately banishing the subject. “Why are we standing around in a dark old storeroom? Let’s go down to the Leaky Cauldron for some drinks. We’ve got plenty of catching up to do.” 

He was right on that count, so they pushed their way back through the crowded store and onto the sun-washed stones of Diagon Alley. Harry, Ron, and Hermione in one place garnered more attention than they would have liked; all the way there, people stopped, pointed, awed, congratulated them, shouted greetings, and in one mortifying case, broke into applause. 

They found a secluded table in the Leaky Cauldron, accepting a round of butterbeer from Tom and a few shots of firewhiskey at Ron’s request. (Hermione whispered to Harry that Ron had taken to using his of-age status whenever possible, meaning excessive use of magic and ordering alcohol was now the norm. Harry returned her “What can you do?” shrug from earlier.

“Feels like I haven’t had butterbeer since I was a kid,” Harry said, setting down his mug. In a way, the statement was true; he was pretty sure he hadn’t had butterbeer since his sixth year, his last true stint of childhood. 

“Yeah, brings you back to Hogsmeade visits, doesn’t it?” Ron asked. “Funny how they seemed like such a big deal a few years ago, getting to go to the village.” 

“Oh, shut up about your nostalgic drinking,” Ginny said with a characteristic eye-roll. “Harry, tell us what you’ve been up to all summer. You’ve barely written.” 

All eyes fell on him; it was his turn to spill everything. “To be perfectly honest, I haven’t done much of anything. But I liked it while it lasted. It’s been such a hectic year, so I was really looking for some peace and quiet.” 

It was clearly a dissatisfying answer. He went on when they all seemed to reject the vague reply. “I mean, I’ve sorted out a few things that needed to be sorted out. You know, family things. I’m Head of the family now, only Potter left, so that’s been a headache, and paperwork, and visits to Gringotts. Really, just boring stuff.” 

“Oh?” Hermione, who was always fascinated by the inner workings of their society, was all ears. “Did you receive an inheritance? Any properties?” 

“Full access to the vault now, no age restriction, of course.” Harry took a sip of butterbeer. “The cottage at Godric’s Hollow is mine, too, but it’s obviously wrecked, so I might just leave it alone. There’s another house in the country that’s been in my father’s family for a while, empty for the longest, so I imagine I’ll take a look around it one of these days. Probably after we graduate. Other than that, there’s not much glamour in being Head of an Ancient House when you’re the only one left in it.” 

His ending sentence was drearier than he’d planned, and the atmosphere seemed to visibly darken with the gloomy topic. He fought to keep things light. “Anyway, that’s really all I’ve been up to. How about you lot?” 

“Mum’s been working us like dogs at the Burrow,” Ron supplied. “The place had been empty for a good few months and it was showing, let me tell you. Needed a good bit of attention when we got back, but it’s nearly back to normal now. Unfortunately, it took the whole damn summer to get it back up to Mum’s standards.” 

“It’s been hard on her, you know, with Fred and all,” Ginny confided. “She can’t even go into his room. And then of course she worries about George, working when she feels like he should still be mourning, and she’s absolutely batty about me leaving to Hogwarts soon. Probably scared I’ll never come back.” 

Ron gave a knowing nod. “On the bright side, Dad’s been promoted to the Muggle Liaison Office, and he’s having the time of his life. He’s had to take a crash course on everything Muggle, the man’s up to his ears in the stuff. They’re using him to explain damages caused by You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters to the Muggle authorities; they’re still scratching their heads over all this.” 

“Bill and Fleur are back in Shell Cottage,” Ginny went on, ticking siblings off of her fingers. “Charlie spent a while at home while everyone was grieving, but he’s back in Romania now. Percy went back to the Ministry, although I think he’s really changed. For the better, I mean.” 

“Yeah, he’s not an uptight prick anymore,” Ron provided. Hermione elbowed him.

“What about you, Hermione?” Ginny asked, if only to take the spotlight off of her family. “What have you been doing these past few months?” 

“Well, after the dust settled and the war was taken care of as best as it was going to be, I went to Australia to find Mum and Dad.” Hermione pulled out a Muggle picture of a string of houses on a beach, the sun glaring off of everything, and passed it around. “They were rather enjoying themselves and their new identities. I think they’d found employment as fishermen and couldn’t have been happier. Fortunately they didn’t remember how much fun they were having when I restored their memories and brought them home, although I think I’ll suggest a holiday to Australia next time they consider one.” 

Tucking the picture away, she continued, “After Mum and Dad were back in England, I was in correspondence with Professor McGonagall for most of the summer, trying to catch up on as much seventh year material as I could while on my own at home. I’d hate to feel out-of-sync with the learning environment when we get back to Hogwarts, so I took precautionary measures.”

“So... you spent the days following Voldemort’s defeat studying,” Harry clarified. To his right, Ron roared with laughter. 

“That’s one way to look at it,” Hermione huffed, doubly annoyed when Ginny let a snicker escape, too. “Excuse me for being a prepared student.” 

“If you were anything else, I’d be wondering what you’d done with the real Hermione,” Harry joked.

With everyone up-to-date on each other’s post-war happenings, they decided it was time to leave. Ginny and Hermione had to see to their shopping, Harry and Ron trailing after them and exchanging a few more summer stories along the way until the girls had finished up. 

“Well, Ginny and I had better head home,” Ron reckoned, squinting up at the low-hanging sun. “Mum’ll just about lose it if we don’t get back before dark.” 

“I’m afraid he’s right.” Ginny checked her watch, tutting. “You know, Harry, Hermione, you’re welcome to come stay the night so we can all head to King’s Cross together tomorrow. Mum and Dad would love to see you before term starts.” 

Harry wanted badly to say no, to have just one more night alone before he was thrust back into the Wizarding World, but he felt like it was the right thing, if only for Molly’s sake. “Um, sure. One night couldn’t hurt. Hermione?” 

He pleaded with her to say yes with his eyes, terrified of being cast into Weasley-infested waters alone. She sighed. “Yes, I suppose it would make sense to stay over.” 

“Atta girl,” Ron said, slinging an arm over her shoulders. 

They Disapparated easily, what with the Burrow’s protective enchantments long gone. The pop of their arrival drew Molly Weasley out of the house, and when her eyes fell on Harry, she let out an absolute shriek. 

_"You!"_ she cried shrilly, marching up the yard towards him “The nerve of you! Practically disappeared after the battle, just vanished. Hermione at least had the decency to write every week or two, but you! Barely a note all summer!” 

Before Harry could raise a hand to defend himself, she swatted him, drawing a snicker from Ron. Enraged, Mrs. Weasley turned on him.

“Having a little laugh, are you?” Her swatting found Ron instead. “You’ve no right to laugh at Harry, at least he’s going back to school tomorrow! The laziness of you!” 

“Ow, Mum, stop!” Ron cowered under her blows. 

“Lazy, lacking ambition, uninspired,” she continued, punctuating every word with a smack. “I didn’t raise you to act like this, that’s for certain—”

“Oh, Molly, leave the boy alone,” Arthur Weasley called out from the front steps. “Wouldn’t it be a shame for him to survive a war only to have his mother beat him half to death?” 

Mrs. Weasley let Ron go with obvious reluctance. “Your father’s got a point, but cross me again, Ronald Weasley, and the Aurors won’t be able to find your body when I’m done—”

Ron led the way back inside, face red with chagrin and body language suggesting his reluctance to turn his back to his fuming mother. Harry's guiltiness in keeping to himself all summer was quickly forgotten. By the time they were all settled in the Burrow's familiar, warm kitchen, Mrs. Weasley was as mothering as ever. 

Dinner felt strange to Harry, though no one else seemed to act or speak awkwardly. Percy, George, and Angelina joined them for the meal; Percy only spoke briefly of his new position in the Department of Magical Transportation, to the surprise of all. George and Angelina expressed gratitude for the new school year as it would surely mean a break for them at WWW. 

Harry finally realized the tension he felt by the time Mrs. Weasley served dessert. Ron and Hermione were not sitting together and Ginny was pointedly looking away from Harry. He frowned as the change registered to him, wondering how this would go over behind closed doors.

After dinner, Percy Apparated back to London and George and Angelina used Floo Powder to return to their flat over Weasley's Wizard Wheezes (George made sure not to leave without slipping a prototype stink-bomb into Percy's pocket). While the mess from dinner was magically attended to, Mrs. Weasley sorted out accommodations; she recommended Percy's old bedroom for Hermione, and what was once Bill and Charlie's room was suggested for Harry's use. 

Harry trekked up the stairs after everything was cleaned up, knowing that Bill and Charlie's room was just beneath Ron's and therefore higher up in the precarious Burrow. As he hit the first landing, however, he was stopped.

"Harry, will you come here for a second?" 

Ginny was leaning against the door to her bedroom with her arms crossed, expression troubled, and he reluctantly turned away from the stairs and followed her into her room. 

Her room was more appealing in the daytime, when the sun could paint it with warmth; in the absence of natural light, it felt almost like a cage. Harry followed her inside and shut the door, hoping that Mrs. Weasley wouldn't assume the worst if she caught them like this. 

She sat down on her bed, and rather than sit next to her, he leaned against her desk, gripping the edge of it to center himself. He knew exactly what this was about; he wasn't stupid, and he wasn't a coward. "I reckon you want to know where we stand."

"That's right." Her face was guarded, her usual energy nowhere to be found. "Are we even 'we' anymore? What's going on, Harry?" 

"I wasn't lying back in the Leaky Cauldron. I needed time to myself. I needed space."

Her frown deepened. "You can have time and space, but a letter here and there couldn't have hurt and you know it." 

"I know, and I'm sorry." He couldn't pretend that she wasn't correct about that. "I was in a bad place after the war, but it's still no excuse. You deserved more than that." 

"What do you mean, a bad place?" 

He grappled for the right words. "I know it's stupid, and I know Voldemort's dead and we can finally live our lives, I get it. I've just been having these dreams, nightmares, really, all about the war, and I can't shake them. I'm just tired. Really, really tired." 

"We're all tired, Harry," she said, her voice far too weary for a seventeen-year-old girl. "But the only way through it is to keep living. You haven't been living." 

He felt a flash of irritation; how could she write his night terrors off like that, when he'd just admitted to having them for nearly four months without reprieve?

Ginny continued without noticing his scowl. "I just need to know if we're over, Harry. I need to know if I've been waiting all summer for you when I shouldn't have." 

Were they over? He hadn't really considered it. Their relationship had been pretty cut-and-dry; everyone seemed to approve, seemed to think that the war hero ought to get the girl. It was almost expected, so he'd never even thought of breaking up. Did that mean he didn't want to be with her? He was afraid he was jumping to conclusions.

They stared at each other across her small bedroom, Ginny expecting the worst, Harry reeling with decisions. Ending it didn't feel right. She _did_ deserve better than what he'd given her thus far. Harry wasn't a natural with women, but he didn't have enough integrity to know that.

He drew from his courage. "I don't want to end things like this. I haven't treated you the way I should have, but I want to do what's right." 

She took pause at his reply, and it occurred to him that his reasoning was more to do with personal morals than actual attraction to her. He'd erred, badly. 

But she accepted it for now. Her eyes closed for a moment, processing. "I'll see you in the morning, Harry. Good night."

"'Night," he mumbled, fleeing before he could revel in his mistake. 

He was interrupted on his way to Bill and Charlie's room once again, this time by the sound of someone sniffling from within Percy's old room. After a moment's consideration, Harry went to the room's closed door and knocked. "Hermione?" 

There was a rustle of movement and then the door opened. Hermione, who'd obviously been crying, smiled tiredly at him. "Yes?" 

"What's happened?" Alarmed, he instantly looked around, half-expecting a masked Death Eater or a great snake to slither out of the darkness of the room. "Are you alright?" 

"Nobody's in danger, Harry," she sighed. 

"Then, what's—?" He tried to indicate her crying without outright acknowledging it. 

"It's stupid, really," she said, beating around the bush as she tended to do with sensitive subjects. "It's nothing compared to fighting wars and seeing our friends die." 

"Obviously it's not stupid if you feel so strongly about it," he pointed out. 

She half-laughed. "I suppose. It's just... Ron and I broke it off just now. It's such a trivial thing to be wound up about, I must be embarrassing myself...." 

Harry floundered; so he wasn't the only one facing up to his relationship. "Why?" 

"I'm going back to school tomorrow, and Ron's not," she said simply, wrapping her arms around herself. "He wasn't interested in a long-distance relationship. I wanted to make it work, but he refused. Specifically, he's worried about me being away from him in a castle full of 'other blokes.'" 

"He's an idiot," Harry said honestly. The thought of Hermione, the most loyal person he knew, cheating on Ron with _anyone_ was almost laughable. 

"An idiot, for sure, but I'm not going to argue it with him." She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, composing herself. "Mum always said that if it's meant to be, it'll find a way. Who knows; maybe when I come back next year, things will be different." 

"Maybe," he said. "If you need me, I'll be upstairs. Feel better, alright? He's being a prat, but I'm sure everything will work out." 

"Thanks, Harry. Good night." 

He finally made it upstairs and into his room, where he shut and locked the door. A few Charms served to soundproof the walls, since the likelihood was he'd wake up from a nightmare, screaming his head off, and he wasn't keen on waking the whole house with his shouting. 

Midnight hit just as he crawled into bed, and Harry fell asleep to the thought that he would be beginning his final year at Hogwarts in just a few hours.


	2. september 1st, 1998

Harry woke up before dawn, jolting out of a nightmare with a choked gasp. He lay in bed after that and let his breathing calm down, staring at the ceiling until the shadows began to retreat and the sun started its ascent into Ottery St. Catchpole's sky. 

In the meantime, he analyzed his dream; he'd been walking through the Forbidden Forest, ready to hand his life over to Voldemort, only he had no family or friends to support him—the Resurrection Stone was nowhere to be found. James, Lily, Sirius, and Remus were elsewhere. He was alone between the shrouded trees. There were no Death Eaters or violent murders, just the sound of his own ragged breathing as he wound endlessly through the forest. 

The sensation of being completely alone, which he'd valued so much in Grimmauld Place, had the opposite effect on him now, and he was grateful when he heard the first signs of movement through the Burrow's thin walls. The others were starting to wake up; he wasn't by himself. 

Harry dressed quietly and went downstairs to the kitchen. Hermione and Ginny were already seated at the table with Mr. Weasley while his wife clattered around the kitchen, preparing breakfast and going on about something or other.

"...which is just wonderful, really, Minerva will make a _fine_ Headmistress," she seemed to conclude. When Harry took his seat at the table, she beamed at him. "Just in time for breakfast, dear." 

Magicked plates served breakfast while Mrs. Weasley joined them at the table. Harry ate without gusto, still queasy after his odd dream. 

Mr. Weasley wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and continued the conversation that Harry had missed the start of. "Oh, of course, Minerva's more qualified than anyone on the planet. And they certainly need a capable leader over at Hogwarts—the reparations after the battle were absolutely grueling." 

"The paper said they needed over two hundred hired workers to get the school back in shape," Hermione reported, obviously drawing on her near-perfect memory. "Even then, they estimated that it would take a few months into term before everything was back to normal." 

"That's going to be difficult on the students," Mrs. Weasley predicted, shaking her head. "Having to go back and see evidence of that horrible battle in your very school, I can't even fathom." 

Harry frowned into his plate, considering her words. His dreams were bad now; he could only imagine how they would be amplified by returning to Hogwarts for the first time since the battle. 

"Hopefully it'll only be minor things," Ginny said. "A busted window here or a torn portrait there." 

"Well, I don't believe they'd let the students come back if there was a hole blown in the side of the castle," Mr. Weasley said cheekily.

The clock over the mantel struck nine. Mrs. Weasley clicked her tongue and began magicking dirty dishes off of the table. "We'll need to leave soon if we want to get to King's Cross on time. Kingsley was nice enough to send a Ministry car over—can you imagine, the Minister for Magic doing something like that for us—and it should be here in twenty minutes." 

"Oh, don't rush Harry and Hermione, Molly," Mr. Weasley said, leaning back contentedly. "They can just Apparate to Hogsmeade in the afternoon." 

It was true; although they were going back to Hogwarts, they could hardly be considered underage. Mrs. Weasley paused to think about it. "I suppose you're right. They can stay here, then—maybe they'll be able to say goodbye to that slug Ronald, if he decides to wake up before noon today." 

Harry shot Hermione a look across the table—did Mrs. Weasley know that she and Ron had broken it off? Did anyone? Her guilty avoidance of his gaze was a clear answer.

"You, however," Mrs. Weasley went on, turning to Ginny, "will have to take the train. No buts, Ginny, you're only seventeen—"

"Yes, Mum, seventeen is _of age_ —" 

"—and you haven't even learned to Apparate yet. Those damn Carrows seemingly forgot to teach it to you lot in between their Dark Arts and Unforgivables. Don't give me that look, Ginny, now go get your things in order. We don't want the Ministry driver to wait." 

Ginny sighed in defeat and left the table. Mr. Weasley stood up and kissed his wife on the cheek, reaching absently for his traveling cloak as he did. "It was a wonderful breakfast, Molly, thank you. But I'd best be off to work. These Muggles are a right handful, but so interesting—did you know that some of their trains are _electric_?" 

He followed her into the living room, babbling about Muggle subways and turnstiles. Alone now, Harry looked at Hermione pointedly. "You haven't told them, have you?" 

"Well, really, what kind of breakfast conversation would that be?" she huffed, face slightly pink. "'Thank you for the meal, Mrs. Weasley, oh, and by the way, your son's a jealous prat and we've broken up.'" 

Her logic was solid, as usual. He sighed. "Alright, alright. But they'll figure it out sooner or later. Ron's not the best at hiding his sour moods, and his mum loves to pry." 

"And by that time, we'll be at Hogwarts," she said simply, dropping the subject. "What about you, Harry? How are you and Ginny? She seemed a bit cold at dinner last night." 

He shrugged halfheartedly. "We're trying to make it work. I haven't been the best boyfriend this summer, running off like I did, so I'm trying to do right by her." 

"That's very good of you," she said, smiling in encouragement. 

"I hope so." He left it at that, because Mrs. Weasley and Ginny had bustled back into the kitchen.

"Now, I expect no trouble out of the three of you," Mrs. Weasley said sternly, whirling to face them. "Don't think I won't send a Howler if I hear you lot are causing a stir at school." 

Ginny groaned. "Oh, come off it, Mum, we're far too old to be getting into trouble anymore." 

"With the track record these two have," her mother snapped, gesturing to Harry and Hermione, "I'm expecting the worst. Best behavior, all of you!" 

"Yes, Mum," Ginny said, as Harry and Hermione chorused, "Yes, Mrs. Weasley." 

She smiled tightly. "That's better. Come along, Ginny, the Ministry driver should be here soon. Harry, Hermione, make sure you get to school safely. No foolishness on the way!" 

Mrs. Weasley ushered Ginny out without a chance for a proper goodbye; Harry saw her look back at him with a strange look, but he didn't stand to follow her out. The front door shut behind them, and moments later, the rumble of a car's engine could just barely be heard.

"Guess it's just you, me, and Ron, now," Harry said, looking at the ceiling ominously. 

"Peachy," Hermione muttered. "What are the chances he'll still be asleep by the time we leave?" 

"Well, since we probably won't have to Apparate until at least six o'clock, not likely." He stood up reluctantly. "It'll have to happen, Hermione. We might as well get it over with." 

She stayed in the kitchen while he bounded up the many stairs to the top of the house, into Ron's sub-attic bedroom. The slanted roof of the sunny room sloped lower than he remembered; he had to duck his head a bit when he went to Ron's bed, where the redhead was snoring lightly. Harry shook his shoulder. "Ron, wake up. Come on, it's half-past nine already." 

"Half-past nine?" Ron moaned into his pillow, rolling onto his stomach. "That's practically dawn!" 

"Don't be so dramatic," he said, rolling his eyes. "Get up already, mate, I need to talk to you." 

Ron's reply was muffled. "'Bout what?" 

"Get up and I'll tell you." 

Sparing no amount of groaning, Ron sat up and stretched, orange hair sticking up and tousled. "What's this about, Harry? Better be bloody important to wake me up at this time." 

"What's going on with you and Hermione?" Harry pulled the chair out from under the desk and sat down, and after a second thought, closed the bedroom door with a flick of his wand. "She says you're over." 

Ron paled, shifting his gaze away. "Look, I know you're our best friend and you want to help, but I don't want to talk about this." 

"Yeah, I am your best friend. And that's why I'm not leaving this alone." 

"There's nothing to talk about," Ron snapped. "She's going away today, Harry, and I'll hardly see her. Isn't better to have a clean break now?" 

Harry frowned. "Are you breaking it off because of that, or because she's going off to live with a bunch of 'other blokes?'" 

Ron blushed red when his own words were thrown back at him. He mounted the defensive. "Is that so wrong of me? Imagine if Ginny was going away and you were the one staying. Wouldn't you be worrying all the time, wondering what she's doing?" 

"No, because I trust her not to do that to me." Which was true, although Harry wasn't sure how much he deserved such unfailing loyalty. "You have to trust Hermione to do the same. The fact that you don't speaks words about you." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

Harry shook his head, sighing. "You've got to work on that, mate. Being jealous all the time, being insecure. That's the root of this, not Hermione, and not the fact that she's going back to Hogwarts today. It's just you making up nonsense in your head." 

Ron fell silent, mouth opening and closing as he looked for a response to that. He seemed to find nothing. 

Harry got to his feet, shaking his head again. "It's hard to hear, but it's the truth, Ron. Think about it. Maybe when we come back after term's over, you'll be in a better place." 

He left the room without waiting for a reply, since Ron didn't seem capable of speaking anyway, and found Hermione pacing the kitchen as if waiting for the executioner to arrive. She startled when he walked into the kitchen but relaxed when she saw that he was alone.

"Did you talk to him?" she asked nervously, worrying her hands. 

"Yeah," he said simply, dropping into a chair. "Told him what he needed to hear, but it just seems like he's not ready for anything serious. If you got back together now, it would just end a little farther down the line. He's got some growing up to do. When that happens, you lot can try again. Might work out then." 

She sat down as well, dejectedly. "That's what I've been telling myself, and I know it's the truth, but I couldn't help but... hope, I guess... that I was wrong. That I was judging his character too harshly. But it's no good lying to myself. He's always been a bit... immature." 

"Just hang in there," Harry said encouragingly, offering a smile. "Pretty soon we'll be back at Hogwarts, and you'll be so busy you'll forget all about it." 

"It would be nice to get back to my schoolwork," she said, a little wistfully.

After that she dissolved into telling him all about her correspondence with Professor McGonagall, who had been kind enough to send her some summer reading from the library. She offered to show Harry all the books she'd accumulated over the holiday, to which he hastily refused, as he wasn't eager to spend his last few hours of the holiday with textbooks. 

They both seemed to be waiting for the sound of Ron's descent, or for him to Apparate straight into the kitchen, which was a favorite past time of his, but as noon passed and the afternoon lengthened, they were still left alone downstairs. Once, Harry was quite sure he'd heard Ron bump into something in his room, but the redhead didn't come down to meet them. 

Harry and Hermione chose not to comment on Ron's obvious cold shoulder; they knew that he was nursing his wounds, mulling over everything that Harry had told him. Harry had the feeling that he'd get a letter of apology within a few weeks, but until then, Ron could sulk all he wanted. 

"It's getting late," Hermione said, eyes falling on the mantel's clock. They'd just finished a late lunch of sandwiches, and with a twirl of her wand, the sparse dishes began to wash themselves in the sink. "We ought to get ready now. Oh, bother. My trunk's still at home; I think I'll have to stop by there to get it." 

He hadn't even thought about his belongings, the majority of which were still at number twelve. "All of my things are still at Grimmauld Place, too. I suppose I'll kip over there—Kreacher's probably wondering where I am." 

She seemed surprised by the mention of the house elf; he'd forgotten to mention him. "Kreacher's still there? I was wondering where he'd gotten off to after the battle." 

"You know how house elves are. They just want to serve their master, and in this case, it's me. The moment I arrived at number twelve a few months ago, he showed up and acted like nothing had changed." 

"Well, that's good then." She checked the time again. "It's half-past five now. How about I run home for a bit, say goodbye to Mum and Dad, get my things, and meet you at the station at six?" 

"Sounds like a plan." They shared a look, then both turned to stare up at the ceiling; Ron had still not come down. 

"Should we... say goodbye to him?" Hermione hedged, drumming her fingers anxiously on the counter. 

Harry shrugged. "Don't think it'll make much difference right now." 

She accepted this answer gratefully. Harry waited until she Disapparated to do the same, folding out of existence for a brief second and appearing unscathed in the foyer of Grimmauld Place. The dreary house was a far cry from the very lived-in Burrow. 

At the sound of his arrival, Kreacher popped into view, tapping one foot in disapproval. "Master Potter did not tell Kreacher that he would not be coming home last night." 

"Sorry, Kreacher," Harry said, a little sheepishly. "Ron kind of sprang it on me. Wasn't in much of a position to refuse." 

"Hmph." Kreacher crossed his arms in grudging allowance but didn't press the subject. "Well, Master Potter should know that his things are waiting for him in his room. The Hogwarts Express will be arriving at Hogsmeade within the hour, Kreacher suspects." 

"Thank you," Harry called over his shoulder, heading up the stairs two at a time.

In Sirius's old bedroom, Harry carefully packed his trunk with his new purchases from Diagon Alley, then fed the whole trunk into the magically-expanding moleskin pouch, which was much easier to carry. Tucking the pouch into his jacket, Harry did a quick sweep of the room and adjoining bathroom to make sure he had everything in order. Sure that he had everything, he went back downstairs and called out for Kreacher.

"Listen, I don't want you to just mill around in here while I'm away, bored out of your mind," Harry told him honestly. He didn't like the idea of Kreacher being shut away as he'd been in all the years that Grimmauld Place had been vacant. "If you'd like, you're free to leave. Or you could take up some work—the kitchens at Hogwarts are always open to you." 

The house elf considered this, raising his chin. "Kreacher will think about Master Potter's offer. But Master Potter must be going now, because it would not be very good for him to miss the feast." 

Harry sighed; he was a tough nut to crack. "Okay, Kreacher. Come visit me whenever. See you soon, alright?" 

Kreacher nodded dutifully at this, and Harry Disapparated. 

He came into being again on the platform at Hogsmeade Station. The early-evening air was pleasantly cool as the sun began to sink completely out of view, behind the mountains that shot up jaggedly in the distance. The Hogwarts Express hadn't arrived yet; the sheer emptiness of the station was proof of this. Just as Harry was wondering if he was early, a light _pop_ behind him alerted him to Hermione's arrival. 

"Oh, I hope you weren't waiting on me too long," she said, noticing him. He saw the old beaded bag in her hand and nothing else; she'd seemingly had the same idea he had regarding luggage. "I wonder when the train will arrive?" 

He looked at the sun's low position in the sky, thinking back to previous years. "It's usually darker than this when the train gets here. Shouldn't be much longer now—"

Harry was unable to fully finish his sentence, because in that moment, a booming voice called out, "HARRY! HERMIONE!"

Startled, they turned and saw Hagrid hurrying up the road towards them, waving a huge hand and beaming under his scraggly beard. 

"What are you two doin' here?" he asked, sweeping them both into a rather bone-crushing hug when he made it to the platform. 

Gasping a little, Hermione bent over to catch her breath. Also winded from Hagrid's greeting, Harry struggled to answer him, coughing intermittently. "Didn't—take the train. Decided to just—Apparate."

"Well, that's jus' great!" Unfazed by their reactions, he checked a pocket watch that hung inside of his coat. "You two weren' plannin' on waitin' around here fer the train, were you?" 

"Um, yes, actually." 

"Nonsense!" Hagrid looked over his shoulder. Near the forest that ringed the station, the carriages that would take elder students up to Hogwarts were arranged in neat rows, each one hooked up to a Thestral and ready to roll onto the main road. "You can take a Thestral—f I remember correct, the two of ya are mighty good at flyin' the blasted things." 

Harry grinned cheekily, reminded of their flight back in their fifth year. "Thanks, Hagrid." 

"Jus' take good care of 'em," Hagrid warned. He started towards the Black Lake, where the enchanted boats were beginning to bob to shore. "Train ought to be here in half an hour, so you lot better get goin'."

While Hagrid began wrestling the boats into a line along the shore, Harry and Hermione approached the Thestral closest to them. Like the others, it was bridled to the carriage behind it, but with a wave of Hermione's wand its trappings fell away. The creature looked back at them when it was freed but seemed nothing more than fairly bored. 

Harry climbed onto the Thestral's back first, settling in between its leathery wings before giving Hermione a hand to help her up. She squeezed in just behind him and wound her hands in his jacket as soon as the winged beast started to move. 

"Ow," he hissed, feeling her nails sink into his skin through the cloth. "Christ, Hermione, I'd like to get off this thing without any lacerations, thank you." 

"You know how I feel about flying," she said, her voice sounding higher than usual with nerves. 

Harry rolled his eyes and leaned closer to the Thestral's head. Since it was part of the Hogwarts herd, he knew it was well-trained and highly intelligent. "Take us to the castle, please." 

The Thestral made a sound that was more bird-like than horse-like and pulled away from its herd, picking up speed on the ground before it took to the air with a loud flap of its wings. Harry enjoyed himself; his last flight had been on the back of a dragon, so this was a welcome change. He'd missed the rush of being airborne. Hermione, on the other hand, clutched him tighter, not at all amused by his teasing as the Thestral took them over the Forbidden Forest and straight towards Hogwarts. 

From the air, he couldn't see any obvious stains of the battle. All of the castle's towers stood erect and proud; its stone façade was unblemished. The grounds were manicured. The damages sustained by the Quidditch Pitch were erased, the colors of the four houses flying proudly in the soft evening wind. Harry had expected this; he was sure the true scars would be harder to catch, but still there. No one was done healing just yet. 

The Thestral lost height when they swept over Hagrid's hut, coasting low over the lawns and touching down a few yards from the school's front steps. It trotted to a stop and tossed its head, as if communicating its disinterest in its riders actions henceforth. Hermione leaped down from the creature as soon as it was stationary. Chuckling, Harry took his time sliding from the Thestral's back, giving it a good pat as he did. 

As soon as they'd dismounted, the Thestral swiveled back around and took flight once more, back to the carriages. Harry glanced up at the school's great oak doors. "Suppose we just go in, then?" 

"Seems like it," Hermione agreed, and they hurried up the steps and into the castle. 

Returning to the place where his nightmares took him every night was disconcerting. The entrance hall was a trial; he couldn't stop picturing Tonks and Lupin's fictionalized deaths in his head as he crossed the marble floors, numbly following Hermione as she started up the grand staircase. 

"Where are we going?" he asked, if only to keep his mind off of his nightmares. 

"To the Headmaster's office," Hermione replied. He didn't comment. 

They climbed the many steps in silence, both lost in thought. Harry tried to take comfort in all the things that hadn't changed—the familiar portraits, the occasional ghost floating by, and of course, Peeves, who fortunately didn't notice them as he cartwheeled through the air on the fourth floor, knocking over suits of armor as he saw fit. The gargoyle in front of the Headmaster's office reminded Harry of all his visits to Dumbledore over the years. 

Before they could knock, a high, clear voice from within the office called, "Enter." 

The gargoyle slid aside and the door opened on its own, admitting them to the office. It had changed some since Dumbledore's time; it seemed lighter, less cluttered, although the portraits of other headmasters and headmistresses still adorned every inch of the walls. Behind the grand desk, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall watched them approach with a straight face, but her lip twitched upwards for just a second. 

"Mister Potter, Miss Granger." She stood up, hands clasped behind her back. "You're early. Nonetheless—welcome back to Hogwarts." 

When she finished speaking, her smile broke through in full, and her students returned it without hesitation. 

"It's good to see you, Professor," Hermione said earnestly, rushing forward and hugging her, to the surprise of the headmistress. 

Harry settled for a handshake, as he wasn't the type to go for a hug and Professor McGonagall already looked startled (startled, but pleased) enough. They sat down near the fireplace at McGonagall's urging, where a house elf came around with tea. 

"Don't let a word of this get out to the rest of the students," the headmistress said sternly, stirring her tea. "It wouldn't do for them to think I'm soft." 

"We'll keep it between us," Harry promised, hiding a smile.

The headmistress set her cup in its saucer, leaning back to regard her students with a critical eye. "Well, Mister Potter, do tell what you've been up to since May. Miss Granger has been attending to her studies, although I can't say I expect the same from you." 

"I've just been keeping a low profile," he summarized, ignoring Hermione's smug look. "Everything was so chaotic back then, I just wanted some time to myself." 

"Indeed. You will be happy to return to the normalcy of Hogwarts, I'm sure." 

He nodded. "I think I need some structure. And some distractions, too." 

"We have all of that and more, Mister Potter," she said with a twinkle in her eye that reminded him of Dumbledore. "Still, you may find that this academic year will be anything but strenuous for you." 

"What?" Hermione cried, the prospect of an easy school year nearly causing her to spill her tea. 

Professor McGonagall stifled a smirk. "Not for _you_ , Miss Granger. I foresee nothing but a very full class schedule from you. Your less-studious peers, however, will be given the option of a relaxed schedule this year." 

"How do you mean, Professor?" 

"Considering the events of the war and the battle that raged in our very school," she said heavily, "I do not wish to burden the students. Eighth years especially are still healing; I know that the war put everyone through their paces. The fact that they chose to return to Hogwarts is a big step for many of your classmates. I will not begrudge them if they choose not to strain themselves with course work." 

"But we're still allowed to pick as many as we'd like, right?" Hermione blurted, still wary. 

"Yes, Miss Granger. You are more than welcome to take as many as your schedule permits." 

Satisfied, Hermione relaxed. Harry felt a great relief at the headmistress's words. He didn't want to admit it, but the fabled stress of NEWT examinations had started to wear on him as he'd begun his preparations for his final year.

"Enough about school, Professor," said Harry. "How are the other members of the Order?" 

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips. "Kingsley is doing a fine job as Minister for Magic, as I'm sure you heard. Many of the Order's allies are finally coming out of hiding, returning to employment.... Regardless, it's hard to celebrate the triumphs of our surviving members with the deaths of our less fortunate so close in mind." 

A mournful silence fell over them as they remembered their fallen. Harry immediately thought of Fred, Lupin, and Tonks, whose deaths he'd hurtled through in his nightmares over and over, who had died in this very castle. 

The headmistress cleared her throat. "Although our trials are great, we, the Hogwarts students and staff, will help each other through these taxing times." 

They only nodded in response. Professor McGonagall got to her feet with a sigh and went to the window, looking down at the grounds. The students were arriving by carriage, spilling onto the lawn and making their way inside. 

"The students have arrived," she announced to her guests, dipping her head sharply at them. "You two had best be going." 

"Thank you for tea, Professor," Hermione said. Next to her, Harry repeated the sentiment. 

"Of course, Miss Granger, Mister Potter." She smiled for a moment, then replaced it with her usual stern look. "Remember: not a word of this." 

They left the office and began their descent to the ground floor. Along the way, they stopped to change into school uniforms in the lavatories, linking up in the corridor again to walk to the Great Hall. Before they even made it to the hall, they heard the murmur of many students talking at once inside. They were a touch late. 

Harry grimaced internally when he pulled open the Great Hall's door and entered on Hermione's heels. Most of the students stopped talking to look at them, the younger kids ogling the war heroes and the older kids giving solid, resolute stares. Even the staff table fell quiet as they entered. 

It lasted but for a few seconds; by the time they reached the Gryffindor table, conversations resumed as normal. Harry dropped into a seat next to Ginny, which had clearly been left open for him, while Hermione took one next to Neville. 

"I was wondering where you were," Ginny said quietly. She squeezed his hand under the table. 

He returned the quick pressure. "Must have lost track of time." 

"Harry, good to see you mate!" His soft conference with Ginny was interrupted by Neville, who'd hastily backed out of a conversation with Nearly Headless Nick to get a chance to talk to Harry. "I was hoping you'd come back for eighth year." 

"We all were," Dean Thomas cut in, smiling in greeting. "Wouldn't have been the same without you, Harry. You too, Hermione!" 

"I suppose Ron decided not to come back?" Neville theorized. 

Ginny smirked. "My brother, voluntarily coming to school? Have you ever _met_ him?" 

Anymore reminiscing among the old friends was briefly paused when Professor McGonagall stood from her seat at the staff table, moving easily to the owl-shaped podium that overlooked the hall. The students fell silent and watched expectantly: they were eager to see their new Headmistress in action for the first time.

"Today we begin another year at Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall, voice reaching all corners of the hall. "We begin a year of betterment, of old friends, of new friends, and of learning. But most importantly, we begin a year of healing." 

The silence, somehow, deepened. She went on. "We, as a student body and as wizarding community, have undergone great strife. We have witnessed the reign of a Dark Lord. We have witnessed the destruction of our castle. We have witnessed the deaths of our classmates, friends, and family. 

"But we have also seen the death of our enemies," she said, turning the heads of those who had looked down with grief. "We have seen our castle rebuilt. We have seen the Dark Lord fall dead in this very hall." 

Someone whistled in appreciation. The headmistress ignored it. "Hogwarts has always defended those who belonged to it. But on the second of May, _we_ defended Hogwarts. I ask that the witches and wizards who fought in the battle now stand and be recognized." 

A little reluctantly, Harry stood, joined by Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and Dean. He noticed that Seamus and Parvati also stood from the Gryffindor table, along with a few others he didn't know personally. From the other house tables, Harry saw friends like Luna Lovegood and Hannah Abbot get to their feet as well.

There was no applause; it wasn't appropriate. They stood under the grateful scrutiny of their classmates, and then they sat down. 

Professor McGonagall took a list from her robes and unfolded it. "I will now read the names of those current and former students and staff who gave their lives in the Battle of Hogwarts, and ask that a moment of silence be awarded to all." 

"Colin Creevey... Lavender Brown..." 

Parvati choked back tears when Lavender's name rang out, covering her mouth with both hands.

"...Fred Weasley..." 

Ginny, the only Weasley at the Gryffindor table for the first time since Bill's enrollment at Hogwarts, bowed her head. 

"...Nymphadora Tonks and her husband, Professor Remus Lupin..." 

At this, Harry shut his eyes tightly, but not quick enough to miss Hermione do the same. 

"...Severus Snape..." 

There were more than a few looks of confusion around the hall, as most people had no idea of Snape's work as a spy and still saw him as the Death Eater who'd served as their cruel Potions teacher and later Headmaster. But Harry knew; he knew that Snape had done some good—not all good, but some—and he inclined his head respectfully as the name was called. 

More than fifty had died in the battle; a majority were students or teachers at Hogwarts at some point, and so they sat in silence for some time before Professor McGonagall reached the last name on the list. 

"...and finally: Albus Dumbledore." 

They awarded Dumbledore the silence they'd given the others, but it was after this that the applause finally began to thunder through the hall. They clapped not just for the memory of their old headmaster—it was for the memory of old friends, too, of fallen soldiers who should never have been soldiers. And of course, they clapped for their headmistress: she had exceeded expectations.

"Though we will never forget these brave witches and wizards, I ask you all not to dwell on their passing," Professor McGonagall instructed, maintaining composure even as students across the hall broke down in tears. "Carry their memory in everything you do, but do not lament their absence. A great wizard once said not to pity the dead, and we will heed his words.

"Tonight is for the living. So, I invite you, the students, and you, the staff, to live." 

She clapped her hands together. The feast appeared across the house tables as Professor McGonagall dismounted from the podium and took her seat at the staff table again. 

They ate quietly, all wrapped in their own thoughts and grief, but a touch of the healing the headmistress had mentioned felt present in the hall as the students tucked into the feast. Harry couldn't quite place it, but he felt different, as if the deaths he'd agonized over for months were becoming more solid but also more distant. It was a good feeling. 

After dinner, the students filed out of the hall, first years taking the lead under the watchful eye of the prefects. Harry intended to wait for everyone to leave to get up, but it seemed other students in his year had had the same idea. The eighth year Gryffindors remained seated with pensive looks. Harry checked around the hall; other friends and peers were still seated at their house tables, deep in thought. 

To his surprise, Harry saw Draco Malfoy at the Sltherin table. He hadn't stood when the headmistress had called for the fighters to be recognized, but with everyone cleared out of the hall, it was impossible to miss him. Next to him, Blaise Zabini sat with his chin on his hand, eyes narrowed at something in the distance. 

"We ought to get to bed," Parvati said after a while, voice thick with tears shed and unshed. 

"Right." Seamus's voice was far away as he got up and offered a hand to Parvati, who accepted gratefully and stuck close to his side as they made their way off towards Gryffindor Tower.

Dean and Neville followed soon after, joined by Luna and Hannah on the way out. When Harry, Hermione, and Ginny moved to the door, they arrived at the same time as Draco and Blaise, who stopped and stared. 

Harry braced himself for the worst; an old habit of dealing with school bullies. But this was nothing like that. Draco only nodded to them, no hint of animosity on his features, and kept walking. Blaise didn't nod, but his face was blank as he followed Draco off to the Slytherin common room. 

Harry had no interest in analyzing Draco's change in character. His bed up in Gryffindor Tower called to him the way it had after the Battle of Hogwarts, and although he knew he would be woken by a nightmare, he still longed for the embrace of a warm bed and the privacy curtains around it. 

The Gryffindor common room was nearly emptied out by the time they arrived. Hermione immediately made for the girls dormitories, bidding them a weary goodnight over her shoulder. Harry and Ginny paused at the dormitory doors and looked at each other. 

He could see her wrestling with words, trying to formulate something that she needed desperately to tell him, but the words won the fight and she gave up. Leaning up a little, Ginny kissed him on the cheek and went up to her dorm. 

Harry stood there a while longer with his hand on his cheek, frowning. Before the battle, that small gesture would have had him floating on cloud nine; now, he could barely find his footing in their relationship long enough to know what something like a kiss on the cheek even meant. 

But he'd worry about it later. Presently, it was late, he was tired, and he had a long night of terrors ahead of him.


	3. september 2nd, 1998

The nightmare was particularly bad tonight; Voldemort played a starring role. 

Harry found himself in the Great Hall as it was the night of the battle, House tables gone, enchanted ceiling near-black. The obvious change was in the onlookers—from the corners of his eyes, he could see that his friends and allies were not standing by waiting to fight as before, but were rather on their knees or in the grips of Death Eaters or simply dead, sprawled on the marble floor and motionless. 

He was in the center of it all, ringed on all sides by his supporters' defeat, and directly across from him, Voldemort stood within the circle with a smirk on his thin lips. 

"You have failed yet again, Harry Potter," he said, voice cold and slithering as ever. "You have no one left to sacrifice their lives for you. Now it is time for you to die."

Harry could feel his wand in his sweaty palm, ready to spring up at his command, but the dream did what dreams do; it left him paralyzed. He saw the Elder Wand cut through the gloom and train on him. He saw Voldemort's lips curl around the Unforgivable. He saw the Death Eaters roar. It was coming now—the flash of green light, the arc of the curse, and then, finally, the moment of impact, the loss of life—

"Harry, _wake up_!"

He felt like he'd dunked his head in ice water. Realities shifted behind his eyelids as he jerked awake, half-sitting up before his eyes were even open. 

"Harry, please, you were having a nightmare. Calm down." 

He opened his eyes slowly in the darkness. The curtains were drawn around his bed, no light seeping through, but he could still match the familiar face leaning over him to the familiar voice that was ringing in his ears. 

"Hermione," he croaked, coming to his senses. "What time is it?" 

"Nearly five o'clock," she estimated. "The sun isn't up yet." 

He slumped back against his pillows and slowed his breathing, reaching up to wipe a cold sweat from his temple. Collecting his thoughts was a challenge. "What are you doing here? How did you know I was having a nightmare?" 

"I had a hunch, so I followed it," she said simply, her voice a bit thin with sleepiness. She whirled her wand, reconstructing the sound-proofing Charm Harry had placed around his bed the night before. "I noticed the bags under your eyes and how jittery you've been these past two days. And it just reminded me of... well, _me_." 

"What?" 

"I've been having these—dreams," she hedged. "Nightmares, really. Dreadful nightmares—I always wake up screaming, too. I figured you might be in the same boat." 

He rubbed a hand over his face. "And you thought the best way to test that theory was to break into my dorm?" 

"Oh, don't be so dramatic." She nudged him over and settled down beside him, their shoulders jostling. They simultaneously turned their eyes to the four-poster's rafters overhead. 

Harry didn't reply for a while, giving himself time to shake the evil face of Voldemort from his mind and reintroduce himself to the waking world. He focused on the absolutes; the soft touch of his sheets underneath him; the faint smell of wood that was commonplace in the dormitory; the sound of Hermione's breathing syncopating his own. 

When he felt grounded again, he chanced a glance at her; she seemed to be lost in her own thoughts, eyes half-shut. He cleared his throat, hesitant to break the silence. "What are they about? Your dreams, I mean?" 

"Oh—lots of things. The war, of course, but all the different parts of it. Sometimes it's the Battle of Hogwarts. Sometimes it's Malfoy Manor, and Bellatrix... the scene changes but the fear never does." 

He nodded, sympathizing. "Mine are just about the battle. Could be Voldemort one night, Remus and Tonks the next. Every now and then it's the Forbidden Forest, right before I let Voldemort try to kill me." 

"I feel silly just thinking about it," she admitted. He had the feeling she was blushing, but it was too dark to tell. "When I wake up, I always realize how the nightmares are in the past now, and in some cases completely fabricated, but I can never figure out that I'm dreaming while I'm asleep." 

"There's nothing to do but let them happen," he muttered, folding his arm across his stomach. "I've just been hoping they start to die off in the next couple of months." 

She shifted, propping her head on her hand to look at him. "That's just the thing, though. I've been doing some reading—"

"Naturally." 

"—and I think this is more serious than we realize," she went on, ignoring his interjection. "Have you ever heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?" 

The words rang a bell. He thought back to his days at Privet Drive, immersed in the Muggle world, and remembered a television special that had been on the morning news once. He'd been serving the Dursleys their breakfast with one ear tuned on the Muggle reporter's droning voice as she highlighted the horrors of PTSD. 

"It's a kind of mental illness," he recalled, choosing his words carefully. "Usually war veterans get it, don't they?" 

"Usually," she agreed. "But haven't you ever stopped and noticed that _we're_ war veterans?"

He hadn't. 

"Now, normally post-traumatic stress disorder is suffered by Muggles," she conceded. "But when it comes down to the differences in brain function between Muggles and wizards, there are almost none. Regardless of magic, we're still humans, and very susceptible to trauma." 

"So you think we're off our rockers?" he asked dryly. He'd heard enough of his mental instability over the years as a reluctant celebrity. 

She rolled her eyes. "Don't be daft, Harry. We're not mental, we just saw and did horrible things during the war and it's somehow stuck in our psyches." 

He rolled onto his side. "How do we fix it, then?" 

"Well, that's the issue," she said, a hint of frustration in her voice. "There's no set cure. You can't just take a pill or potion for it; some Muggle drugs help the symptoms, but the only way of 'curing' the disorder is psychotherapy." 

"And I don't imagine there are a lot of wizards with degrees in psychotherapy at St. Mungo's," he theorized, scowling. 

"Unfortunately, that's the case." She sighed heavily and sat up, the absence of her body heat leaving his right side feeling colder than before. "But I'm still researching to see if there's anything we can do, Muggle or magic."

Harry laced his hands behind his head, echoing her sigh. "If you need any help, just let me know." 

"I will. In the meantime, though, I think we ought to visit the hospital wing." 

"The hospital wing?" He quirked an eyebrow. "Not even two days into term and you want to go down there? Pomfrey will have a cow." 

"You never know," she said. "Maybe there's some miracle remedy she can give us. We won't know until we ask." 

"Suppose you're right." Harry pushed himself up on his elbow and poked a curtain aside, peeking out into the dorm. "It's getting light out—you ought to get out of here." 

As if on cue, the curtain around Dean's bed rippled and the young man swung his legs out, yawning into his hand. Hermione's eyes widened. "Oh. Right, I'll just—"

"Wait," Harry hissed, grabbing her wrist before she could exit the privacy of the four-poster. "Can you imagine what these blokes would think if you came crawling out of my bed in the early morning?" 

Now he was _certain_ she was blushing. Harry motioned for her to stay still and then reached an arm out of the curtain and into his trunk, which was open next to the bed, and groped around until his hand caught the slippery material of the Invisibility Cloak. He reeled it back to him and then pushed it into Hermione's hands. "Here. Just give it back later." 

"Thank you," she mouthed. She tossed the cloak over herself, disappearing from view. He opened the curtain for her as inconspicuously as he could and waited until a creak of the mattress signaled her departure, then climbed out of bed himself. 

Luckily, only Dean and Neville were awake, and both were too preoccupied to notice the door open and shut seemingly of its own accord. Breathing a sigh of relief, he dressed quietly in his uniform—the nostalgia was fierce—and made a halfhearted attempt at tidying his hair. 

It was a bit early, so the common room and corridors were close to empty as Harry made his way downstairs to breakfast, alone. He didn't care for company at the moment; he was still mulling over Hermione's diagnosis. PTSD—it seemed strange and outlandish for a Muggle illness to plague him after all the magical injuries he'd sustained over the years. 

Ginny slipped into the seat next to him at breakfast, smiling easily, and he wondered if things would go back to normal for them. She was becoming her vibrant self at least, although he wasn't sure he returned her liveliness just yet. He settled for a quick, small smile in return. 

"Got yer schedules here!" Hagrid was making his rounds up the Gryffindor table that morning, handing out times tables to the waiting students in Professor McGonagall's stead. "Alrigh', alrigh', here ya are—got yer schedule, here—"

Hagrid gave Ginny her schedule but skipped over Harry, Hermione, Dean, Neville, Seamus, and Parvati—all of the eighth year students in the vicinity.

"Got any tables for us, Professor?" asked Neville, setting down his goblet. 

"'Fraid not," Hagrid replied, slapping the times tables against his palm. "You lot are a bit different—I'll let the headmistress explain." 

Before he could move away, Hermione stopped him with another question. "Hagrid, now that Professor McGonagall is the headmistress, who's going to be the Head of Gryffindor?" 

Hagrid cracked a grin. "Oh, I was hopin' to make it a surprise, but I can't keep it all bottled up—it's me!" 

"No way!" Dean cried, just as Neville hollered, "Get out!" 

"That's great, Hagrid!" Hermione praised. "Congratulations!" 

Harry beamed. "Really happy for you, Hagrid." 

The professor glowed under the kind words, almost choking up. "Stop all that, you lot, I migh' start crying." 

Hagrid moved on down the table to finish handing out schedules. Dean watched him go with a quizzical look. "I wonder what our schedules are going to look like?" 

"Hopefully they're not loaded with classes," Seamus groaned. 

Speculations flew for the remainder of breakfast. The time for the first class of the day neared, causing underclassmen to file out of the hall with school bags over their shoulders and start-of-term chatter humming around them. Ginny followed her peers reluctantly, pecking Harry on the cheek before she left. 

The teachers trickled down from the staff table until only the Headmistress remained, going to the owl podium to address the remaining eighth years. Harry noticed that there was no new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

"As I'm sure you all remember, the letters you received prior to the start of term mentioned a revised curriculum for you, as 'eighth year' is not the norm here at Hogwarts," McGonagall explained, eyes sweeping the hall. "Though you are young, you have all been through great trials within these walls and against foes much stronger than you. For that, I will not press you to take the usual classes befitting the average NEWT student." 

She waved her wand, and across the hall, times tables appeared before each student. "These schedule cards have the available courses for each time slot for the week, but I will leave it up to each of you to choose what courses you take. You may choose one or as many as you can handle; I will not interfere in the scheduling." 

A murmur of excitement rose up, dying down when the headmistress peered at a pocket watch inside of her robes. "First block begins in just a few minutes—try not to spend too long on this." 

She swept out of the hall. The murmur grew to a steady clamor as the eighth years began to pour over the schedules.

Harry observed his classmates before taking up his quill. Naturally, Hermione was steadfastly checking off every possible course; Neville immediately doubled up on Herbology; Seamus made a face at his times table but didn't move to choose anything. 

Harry directed his focus at his own schedule, frowning. The only class he was interested in was Defense Against the Dark Arts, his strongest subject, which he eagerly doubled up on. After that, he reluctantly signed on to finish his Charms and Transfiguration studies, and, as an after-thought, he marked off Astronomy, which was a relatively easy if not tedious subject. He agonized over Potions; he didn't want to continue the subject with all the bad memories of Snape it carried, but he also recognized the importance of it. He grudgingly penciled it in for Thursday afternoons. 

"Anyone signed on for Charms right now?" Dean asked, getting to his feet and stowing his times table away. 

Harry, Hermione, and Parvati were the only ones; Neville sheepishly reminded them of his poor track record with Charms and Seamus simply refused it without apology. 

"We'd better get going," Parvati said. "Class started ten minutes ago." 

Since the number of returning eighth year students was rather small, their classes were not segregated by house; Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and Slytherins alike made their way up to the Charms classroom, where hyper little Flitwick was overjoyed to see all of his advancing students. 

Harry was pleased to find that the curriculum wasn't as bad as he'd expected; many of the Charms covered were ones he'd been forced to learn during the war. He found the syllabus less than daunting and was in good spirits when Flitwick released them twenty minutes early. 

"Where are you off to now?" Harry asked Hermione as they stepped into the corridor.

She consulted her completely full times table. "I have Arithmancy now, lunch at noon, and then Herbology all afternoon. And you?" 

He grinned. "Nothing for the rest of the day." 

"Nothing?" She sounded as if he'd called her a horrible name. "That's awful!" 

"Come on, Hermione, I've never taken Arithmancy and I hardly care for Herbology," he said. 

"I suppose," she said grudgingly. "What about tomorrow?" 

"Defense Against the Dark Arts in the morning and then a spot of Astronomy in the evening." 

She sighed. "Well, I'll see you at lunch. Try to find something to do rather than lazing around the castle all day." 

He cheekily vowed to make no promises and left her to her next class, ambling through the hallways with no destination in mind. He'd never had so much free-time during term; even in his sixth year, he'd only had a free period here or there. 

A few years ago he would have jumped on the opportunity to go fly around the Quidditch pitch, but he found that he had no desire to do so. He figured that it was because he had no Firebolt, or because he had no intention of playing for the Gryffindor team (as much as he loved Quidditch, he thought it unfair to the other students to resume the captain and Seeker positions; he'd had his time at Hogwarts, and it was time to let others have theirs). 

It occurred to him that he would have spent this free time with Ron if his mate was around. Harry hadn't considered the consequences of returning to school without Ron, but now he was feeling them—he had no one to spend the time with, since Hermione would be in class during most of his time off. 

He frowned, wondering if it was time to look for a mate to fill Ron's shoes. It wouldn't be easy, but he didn't know if he could stomach being so alone all the time. 

Eventually, he settled on taking a trip down to the library (this would certainly make Hermione proud). He had his eye on a collection of books about notorious Dark wizards and their ultimate downfalls at the hands of Aurors.

The library was near-deserted, as most of the students were in class at this time, but a few of the tables were occupied by studious witches and wizards with their heads in books. Harry went to a shelf to pick out the first volume of the Dark wizard series when he noticed pale blonde hair out of the corner of his eye. 

"Luna?" he prompted, turning away from his find. 

Luna Lovegood, looking very small and skinny in an over-sized armchair at the end of the aisle, glanced up from her book to fix her dreamy stare on him. "Hello, Harry. You're looking rather nargle-free today." 

"Er, thanks," he said. "How are you?" 

"I'm feeling like an un-tethered Thestral, thank you." She shut her book and folded her hands over it, one of her legs swinging absently. "Just trying to keep busy. You know the old saying; an idle mind is a wrackspurt's playground."

He'd never heard the saying but he appreciated the conversation nonetheless. "Right. Wrackspurts...." 

A thought struck him. He'd always been able to confide in Luna things that he was hesitant to tell Ron and sometimes Hermione; this should be no different. Harry moved a little closer, lowering his voice so the students at the tables wouldn't overhear. 

"Luna, have you been feeling alright since the battle?" he asked, carefully broaching the subject. 

"How do you mean, Harry?" 

He worried the sleeve of his jumper. "I don't know—have you had any strange dreams, or flashbacks, or anything like that?" 

She paused, eyes floating to the ceiling. "Oh, yes. Definitely. Awful dreams."

"Every night?" 

"No, not every night." Luna's leg stopped swinging. "But they still happen nonetheless. Are you having them, too?"

"Yes," he said, and he did not have to say that he had them every night; it was understood without words.

Luna said nothing, only making her usual unnerving eye-contact with him. 

"I was just, er, wondering if anyone else was having trouble with the war and everything," he stammered, breaking her gaze. 

"I'm sure there are others, if you're willing to look," she said cryptically. She opened her book again, and he left her to her own devices.

* * *

By lunchtime, Harry decided that he could hardly qualify as a Hogwarts student anymore. 

It was only the first day, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't fit into the student category. Part of it was the abundance of free time. But underneath that, there was a deeper change in him that set him apart from the others—he simply didn't feel like a kid anymore.

He was only eighteen, and by no means a self-sufficient adult. But he wasn't exactly a kid, either. Even in his last year at Hogwarts, his sixth year, when he was beginning to learn of Horcruxes and the depth of Voldemort's insanity, he'd still had a hold on his fleeting childhood. He didn't have that now. He just felt old, and tired. 

Harry trudged downstairs to the Great Hall in hopes of better spirits. Seeing his friends again for the lunch period would pull him out of his mood and food couldn't hurt. He sat down at the Gryffindor table and tuned into the conversation that was already in place, mostly between Dean, Seamus, and Ginny. 

"Slytherin's team is going to be rubbish this year," Seamus predicted, tearing into his chicken. "A whole load of them didn't come back to Hogwarts after the battle, on account of half of their parents being thrown into Azkaban." 

"Oh, don't be crass, Seamus," Ginny chided, rolling her eyes. "It wasn't that many." 

He shrugged unabashedly. "Still, it was a good few of the bastards. Wonder how many of them were good Quidditch players?"

Any laughs were quickly silenced when Professor McGonagall appeared behind Seamus, an eyebrow raised in warning. Seamus's grin immediately fell away. 

"Good afternoon, Headmistress! Er, what can we do for you?" 

"Good afternoon, Finnigan," Professor McGonagall replied, expression unchanged, although Harry had the feeling she was hiding some of amusement under her stern mask. "I trust that your conversation is entirely school appropriate, Finnigan." 

"Oh, of course, Professor!" Seamus insisted, offering his most innocent smile. 

"Hmph." The headmistress turned from him to address Harry, who hastily wiped off his own smile. "Mister Potter, I came to ask if you would be needing this." 

She withdrew a shiny Quidditch Captain badge from her robes, adorned in red and gold. Harry's eyes widened as everyone looked at him expectantly. "Actually, Professor, I was thinking I wouldn't play this season. I've had my go, you know, ought to give someone else a shot." 

"Not playing, Potter?" Both of her eyebrows crept up now. "Then I'm out of a captain _and_ a Seeker. Doubly unfortunate." 

Her eyes swept the table and landed on Ginny. "Miss Weasley, you were the substitute Seeker and full-time Chaser in the '96 season, correct?" 

"Yes, Professor." 

"Very well." She extended the badge to her. "Should you choose to accept, the captain position is yours." 

Ginny hesitated; Harry was under the impression that she hadn't given Quidditch a thought after all that had happened in the past year. It was only with Seamus and Dean's whispered encouragements that she eventually accepted. 

Professor McGonagall beamed. "Excellent, Miss Weasley. Plan to have tryouts and begin practices within the next few weeks; your first match is against Hufflepuff and I hear they have a rather impressive pair of Beaters on their hands." 

The headmistress left them while Seamus and Dean cheered, even drawing a few shouts and claps from the Gryffindors fringing their group. 

"Well, their goes any free time I might have had this term," Ginny said, although Harry detected a note of pride in her voice as she pinned the badge to her jumper. "Dean, you'd better tryout for Chaser. You were brilliant last time you subbed for Robbins...." 

They dissolved into Quidditch talk again, and Harry only spoke when prompted, content to hand the reigns over to someone else for a change. Hermione looked up from her book—a Muggle text, Harry noticed, with medical diagrams—and seemed to notice for the first time that he was next to her.

"Oh, hello, Harry." She shut the book and tucked her hair behind her ear, readjusting to the world outside of its pages. "How are you?" 

"Bored as can be," he said cheerfully.

"Don't tell me you've done nothing in all this time?" 

He shrugged one shoulder. "I did spend quite a while in the library. Don't think I'll ever be as heavy a reader as you but it was surprisingly relaxing."

She predictably beamed at the mention of the library as he continued. "Still, I didn't think coming back to school without Ron would be so dull. He may be a prat sometimes but we had fun together." 

"I think I miss him for the opposite reason," she admitted. "I got so used to bickering with him all the time that I keep expecting him to say something stupid over my shoulder, for some silly argument to start. But every time I look to see what he'll say, he's not there, and then I remember that he's not coming back." 

"It's tough, I know." Harry eyed her critically. "Are you holding up alright since the split?"

She frowned, worrying the edge of the book. "It's easier with him not around. If he was here, he'd probably expect you to take his side in it, and then you'd be in an uncomfortable position since he's your best mate and all...." 

"I wouldn't ignore you for him," he promised. He valued both of their friendships too much to let either of them get in the way of it. 

"Thanks, Harry." And she seemed surprised by how genuine his answer was and how easily he said it. 

He leaned closer to read the title of her book over her arm— _Afflictions of the Mind: a Comprehensive Study of Non-Hereditary Mental Illnesses_ —and gave her a questioning look. "Is this for our...." 

He trailed off, not eager to draw attention to their potential cases of PTSD, and she nodded shortly. "I'm still doing my research. We still need to see Pomfrey." 

"Don't remind me." He scowled at the thought of being seen in the hospital wing so early in the term. 

"Oh, it's for our own good, Harry," Hermione reminded him, stuffing the book into her bag. She checked her watch. "Nearly time for Herbology. You know, it's not too late to add it to your schedule...." 

"I'll pass, thanks." 

"Fine, fine. Ready to go, Neville?" 

Neville sprang to her side, eagerly discussing NEWT-level plants with her as they walked off to the greenhouses together. Harry waited until most of the Great Hall had cleared out before he reluctantly got to his feet, wondering what he'd do for the rest of the afternoon until dinner....

His thoughts were interrupted in the entrance hall as a loud crack resounded through the air, startling him. He had his wand out before it registered that the noise had come from the small, hook-nosed creature in front of him. 

"Kreacher?" Harry asked, perplexed. "What are you doing here?" 

"Kreacher has come to work at Hogwarts as Master Potter suggested," the house elf answered. His arms were folded, a disapproving look on his hard features. "Kreacher has been checking on Master Potter and is displeased." 

"Dis-displeased? What do you mean?" 

Kreacher shook his head as if Harry was particularly pitiful. "Master Potter is lonely and aimless. Kreacher thinks Master Potter needs more friends." 

Harry was dumbfounded. It was almost comical; a house elf was telling him he was a ruddy loner. 

"Er, maybe you're right," Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Most of the other Gryffindors are in class around this time is the problem." 

"Kreacher does not see the problem. There are many fine young witches and wizards to befriend in the other Houses. Slytherins are great students, as are many Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs." 

Inter-House relations weren't exactly the norm in Hogwarts, but the house elf had a point. Maybe it was time for Harry to branch out a bit. 

"Yeah, okay, Kreacher. I'll look into making some friends." 

"Kreacher is pleased with his work." With that, he disappeared.

Shaking his head, Harry trudged upstairs. It certainly wasn't his most eventful first day of school ever, but it wasn't an average one, either.


	4. september 3rd, 1998

Hermione woke him again the next morning, her hands prying him from the nightmare—it was one where he watched Hagrid be overcome by Aragog's descendants, their pincers tearing at him as he disappeared under the horde of hairy legs—

"Harry, it's just a dream. Wake up." 

He kept his eyes shut, working his breathing down to a normal place. Her hands didn't stray from his shoulders until he opened his eyes and looked up at her.

"Thanks," said Harry, not sure what else to say. 

She didn't reply immediately, lying down next to him on her stomach and pillowing her head on her arm first. "It's alright. I was already awake, anyway." 

Because of a nightmare, Harry thought, but that didn't have to be said. They slipped into a comfortable silence. It was natural for them; he couldn't sit with Ron like this and say nothing without his mate growing antsy in the quiet. Hermione was more appreciative of wordless company.

It was still dark out judging by the sliver of window he could see through his curtains. He tried to drift back to sleep, closing his eyes and letting his breathing sync with Hermione's, but the dream was still too fresh in his mind and he couldn't get his heartbeat to slow down all the way. Traces of adrenaline were still circulating in his nervous system.

"Are you asleep?" he asked tentatively, as her eyes were closed and her breathing was slow and deep. 

"No." 

He expected as much. Rolling onto his side, he watched her eyes open and shift to him. "Feeling okay?" 

It was a roundabout way of asking about her nightmare, but she understood nonetheless. "Not really. I _know_ Bellatrix is dead, I saw her die in the battle, but she felt so _real_ —"

The rest of her sentence cut off abruptly, her mouth closing almost painfully fast, and he didn't have to ask to know that she had had an especially horrid nightmare. Harry took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. 

"And you?" She seemed to regain her composure. "Feeling okay?" 

"Not really," he echoed. "Hagrid—spiders—and yes, it felt very, very real." 

"Well, we're just a pair, aren't we." 

He chuckled humorlessly at that. "You've got the right of it there." 

They fell back into their communal silence, wrapped in their own thoughts, still joined at the hand. Harry settled on watching the slice of window change from inky black to deep blue, and, slowly, to gray; when the first hint of orange came about, he gently squeezed her fingers again. 

"Sun's coming up," he whispered. 

Hermione sat up and pulled the Invisibility Cloak out from under her—true to form, she'd come prepared. "I'll see you at breakfast." 

She stole out of the four-poster under the cloak. Harry savored his last few minutes in bed, pressing his face into his pillow and pretending he'd actually gotten a good night's sleep until the brightening rays of morning were too urgent to ignore. He shuffled out of bed and got dressed with a few mumbled good mornings to Neville and Dean. 

The post came at breakfast. Harry was reaching for a plate of bacon when the rush of many wings began overhead, signaling the arrival of the hundreds of owls. A nondescript owl that Harry didn't recognize dropped a letter unceremoniously on his plate and then took off with a haughty flap of its brown-speckled wings. 

Harry opened the letter with caution, expecting fan mail—he'd had more than a few overzealous supporters send him words of thanks and praise in the post over the last four months, to the point where he'd had to start sending it all to the house on Privet Drive, which was uninhabited since the Dursleys' departure and a perfect place to store his bulging sacks of mail. The letter turned out to be from Ron, and was just a few lines scrawled messily on torn parchment. 

_Harry,_

_I shouldn't have let you go back to school without saying a proper goodbye; it was really low of me, so I'm sorry. I ought to thank you for saying what you did... it was a tough pill to swallow but I've done some thinking on it, and I had to hear it sooner or later. So thanks for being a real mate. I'll try to make it up to you soon._

Tell Ginny I said hi, and that if I hear about you two getting caught in a broom cupboard snogging, I'm marching up to the castle to have a talk with her. I mean it! Oh, and Mum and Dad send their love. 

Let me know when the first Hogsmeade weekend is. I'll Apparate over and we can have a drink or two at the Three Broomsticks. 

-Ron 

Harry frowned at the parchment. He was glad to hear that Ron was taking his advice to heart, but the fact that he hadn't mentioned Hermione in the letter was a red flag. He still had a ways to go as far as maturing up a bit.

"What's that?" Ginny questioned, looking up from her own letter—another from Mrs. Weasley, which was no doubt full of motherly concerns for her daughter and snippy complaints about Ron's laziness—and gesturing to the parchment in Harry's hands. 

"Letter from Ron." He let it fall next to his plate. "He says hello, and that he'll come to Hogwarts and give you a stern talking to if we get caught snogging or anything unsightly like that." 

She rolled her eyes in a very Ginny-esque fashion. "Oh, he's so full of it. He's probably just upset because he hasn't got Hermione anymore." 

"You know about that?" 

"Mum's ranting about it as we speak," she explained, waving the letter. "Says he'll never do better than her and he ought to come to Hogwarts and make amends. I imagine he's too proud to do it." 

"I have to agree with you there." Harry shot a glance across the table, hoping Hermione wasn't listening, but she seemed engrossed in a conversation with Parvati about their Herbology lesson from yesterday. 

"Hopefully he swallows his pride and does it," Ginny continued, not noticing his diverted attention. "They do have a lot of history. It could still work out." 

"Time will tell," Harry said. "Ron says he'll come to the first Hogsmeade weekend and visit. Maybe he'll man up by then?" 

Something didn't sit right at the thought of Hermione and Ron resuming their relationship; he attributed it to Ron's continued lack of maturity in romantic matters and in general. Harry certainly didn't want his friends to go through the pain of a breakup twice, which was almost inevitable if they got back together without Ron undergoing serious development. 

"Enough about them," Ginny said, waving her hand and crumpling the letter in the same motion. "We've barely seen each other. How's your schedule today?" 

"DADA in a few minutes and Astronomy at midnight." 

"Oh, I've got Potions all morning and Charms in the afternoon," she said, scowling. "Today isn't good, then. You know, I'm holding tryouts for the Quidditch team this weekend—I know you don't want to play, but maybe you could come watch and help me make the final decision?" 

Her bright blue eyes looked to him hopefully, and he could hardly refuse. He wasn't the best boyfriend in the world but he could definitely do this much for her. "Of course, I'll be there." 

"Great. Nine o'clock Saturday morning. I'll see you at the pitch." She gathered her books together and pecked him on the cheek (Seamus made a gagging sound across the table). 

After she left, Harry finished up his breakfast and then joined a pack of Gryffindor eighth years for their first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson. Everyone was curious to see who the new professor would be; Professor McGonagall had made no mention of it in the start-of-term feast and no new face had joined the staff table. Idly, Harry wondered if the "curse" that Tom Riddle had placed on the position would be voided now that Voldemort was dead. 

The DADA classroom was open when they arrived, so they filed in and took their seats, loosely segregated by House. Harry sat in the corner desk with Hermione on his left, patiently watching the door to the DADA office and waiting for the professor to appear. 

When seconds turned to minutes, his focus drifted to the rest of the classroom; he noticed Draco and Blaise sitting on the opposite side of the room, mirroring his and Hermione's position. Daphne Greengrass sat next to Blaise, her eyes fixed on the blackboard with undisguised disinterest. The seats in the middle of the room held a buffer of various Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs; Hannah Abbott and Michael Corner were excitedly discussing their future career plans, oblivious to the separation between the Houses. 

The office door slammed open without warning. Everyone snapped their heads to it as their professor stepped into the room. Harry took in the long white beard and hair, the bright blue eyes, the tall frame; for a second, he could pretend it was Albus Dumbledore. 

But it wasn't: it was his brother, Aberforth.

Whispers sprang up around the room. Harry and Hermione shared a quizzical look—they were both in agreement that Aberforth Dumbledore wasn't a people person, and therefore not a natural at teaching school children.

"Good morning! Will you be our teacher, Ab?" Neville asked cheerfully, when no one else took the initiative. 

"Looks like it," Aberforth said gruffly, leaning against his desk. "This is just a favor to Professor McGonagall—she's always been a good friend so I'm paying her a kindness and teaching you lot." 

Former members of Dumbledore's Army (namely Neville and Seamus) were elated to see their friend and ally take the helm of DADA. Aberforth crossed his arms and fixed the class with a critical stare. "I'll give it to you straight—I'm no professor. Never liked kids much. But I know enough about the Dark Arts to keep an eye on you all and make sure you're getting through the course alright, and you'll be walking out of here with your NEWTs in no time." 

Harry could feel Hermione seething next to him—she was a stickler when it came to professors and was obviously displeased with Aberforth's attitude on the subject—but the rest of the class seemed receptive to Aberforth's demeanor. Even the Slytherins were observing without their usual sneers, giving Aberforth the benefit of the doubt before judging him on his relation to Dumbledore.

"McGonagall gave me a syllabus, thank Merlin," Aberforth muttered, unrolling a long scroll. "Let's see, week one... You'll need your books for this." 

He waved his wand. A stack of textbooks behind him flew off of their shelf and landed on the desk of each student, sending up clouds of dust that had everyone stifling coughs. 

Aberforth continued without comment. "Right, turn to chapter one and read it. That's all we've got for the day. Don't be too loud in here." 

With that, he retreated back into the office, shutting the door behind him. 

Naturally, Hermione got right to reading, her eyes moving across the page with a speed that never failed to unnerve him. Harry went about their assignment less vigorously. The first chapter was only an introduction, after all, and he didn't need to actually digest any of it. 

The students completed their task within a few minutes, which meant the rest of the block would be a glorified free period. To Harry's surprise, he noticed that the segregation between Houses didn't last—Slytherins, Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, and Gryffindors all began to mix, something he'd never seen before the war. Perhaps the fall of Voldemort had consequences apart from the safety of Magical Britain.

"You know him?" Blaise Zabini asked Neville, Seamus, Harry, and Hermione, motioning towards the office with his chin as he perched on an empty desk near them. Draco trailed after him with an unreadable expression. 

"Yeah, he was a real help last year," Neville said. "He got food in and out of the castle and fought in the battle." 

Harry saw Malfoy's eyes drop to the floor at the casual mention of the war; Blaise, who'd shamelessly stayed out of the fighting, didn't seem to care. "Seems like an alright bloke. Not as weird as his brother, anyway." 

"He's a bit more down-to-earth, yeah." 

"And he's a rubbish professor," Hermione quipped, throwing a dark look at the office door. "He's not even teaching!" 

Harry rolled his eyes. "It's only the first day, Hermione." 

"So?!" 

He gave her a long-suffering look and she reluctantly let the subject go. Blaise smirked at the exchange. "Hate to say it but Granger's right. Alright bloke or no, the man's a bloody terrible teacher." 

"Yes, I have to agree there." Daphne Greengrass drifted over from a conversation with Terry Boot, flipping her strawberry-blonde hair over her shoulder. "I expect an Outstanding on my NEWT and he's certainly not helping matters." 

"Well, nice to see that someone understands my concerns!" Hermione said, giving Harry a pointed look. 

"Alright, alright, so he's not the best teacher. But it's better than Umbridge!" 

Even the Slytherins had no complaints there, although they'd had the best treatment from her during her tenure at Hogwarts. Blaise snorted. "That old toad? She couldn't defend herself against a bloody centaur." 

The class passed in this manner—it only registered to Harry at its end that he'd had a pleasant conversation with Slytherins and no one had been hexed or threatened. Draco hadn't said much; he seemed like a different person since the battle, a subdued, indifferent one, and Harry wasn't sure what he thought about the change.

* * *

The rest of the week went by in a blur for Harry. Every morning was the same; he was woken by Hermione mid-nightmare, who would stay with him in the pre-dawn until the sun began to rise, and then they'd part ways. He sat with Ginny at breakfast each day, listening to her tell him about her classes and comparing differences in the seventh and eighth year curriculum. His own classes barely held his attention; the first week of instruction was never rigorous.

The weekend sneaked up on him. He and Hermione stayed cocooned in the four-poster for a bit longer than normal, letting the sun climb well into the sky without the obligation of classes to pull them out of bed. When it was just past eight, he reminded himself of his promise to watch the Gryffindor tryouts and reluctantly got dressed, not waking Hermione, who'd fallen asleep next to him sometime around dawn. 

He was glad for his jacket when he made it down to the grounds; September was colder than he remembered, and he was sure it would be worse atop a broomstick. By the time he made it to the stadium, the prospective players were already in the center of the pitch, milling around the sand and stretching lightly. 

Harry waved to Ginny as he climbed to the top of the stands, settling in at the highest point. She returned the wave and then turned to the Gryffindors around her. He couldn't hear from so far, but it seemed like she was rounding them up to begin the tryouts. 

They were separated into two teams and took to the air relatively quickly. Ginny released the Bludgers, Quaffle, and Snitch and then straddled her own broom. Instead of joining the teams overhead, she flew up to where Harry sat and joined him on the stands, her broom floating lazily next to her. 

"Dean's a definite Chaser," Harry told her. As he spoke, Dean lobbed the Quaffle through the goal for his second score in just a few minutes.

"Agreed." Ginny pointed to a streak of curly black hair that flashed past them, Quaffle in hand. "Robins is another sure-fire. She's got bloody good aim." 

On cue, Demelza scored. The Keeper on that side, a scrawny third year Harry didn't recognize, looked absolutely crushed. 

The final Chaser position went to a fourth year girl named Lucy Bright. Harry had never met her but she was a fast flyer and was a natural at getting the Quaffle into her hands.

They chatted while the practice match unfolded, Ginny occasionally taking notes on a scrap of parchment. She glanced at him contemplatively. "You know, I didn't picture us like this." 

"How do you mean?" 

"I figured we would have more to talk about," she admitted, eyes falling on the pitch. "I thought that once You-Know-Who was finally dead, we wouldn't have anything standing in the way anymore and we'd be inseparable, and we'd never run out of things to do with or say to each other."

He opened his mouth and closed it. "Me too." 

Harry remembered standing in the center of the Great Hall after the battle, feeling as if he'd been trampled by a herd of centaurs, his eyes roving the familiar faces until they fell on Ginny, tucked under her mother's arms. Back then he had been bursting with words just for her. He hadn't known where to start. Now his mind was blank every time he spoke to her, cart-wheeling through emptiness.

He didn't want to think about why this was; he felt that neither of them would like the answer.

Ginny sighed, leaning back against the bleacher behind her. "Well, at least we're in agreement." 

Harry shifted uncomfortably. This was falling into dangerous territory: the parts of their relationship that were ridiculously hazardous but completely ignored, like a slick floor without a caution sign. Shakily, he directed the conversation back to Quidditch; it was the only thing they could find middle-ground on nowadays.

They decided on keeping the two Beaters that had played during Harry's year as captain, Jimmy Peakes and Ritchie Coote, as they were friendly enough to work well together and had a knack for putting force behind their bats. For Keeper, they unanimously agreed on Seamus; Dean had dragged him to the tryouts just to see how things would turn out, and to everyone's surprise, Seamus had a good pair of hands and saved most of the goals. 

"And I guess that leaves me to be Seeker," Ginny summed up as the practice match drew to a close.

"You'll do great," Harry promised when he heard a note of nerves in her tone. "You did great when you subbed for me and you'll do great now." 

She breathed a sigh and smiled at him. "Thanks, Harry. Suppose it's time to break it to them." 

Ginny flew back down to the pitch, Harry following leisurely. By the time he got there, she'd wrapped up her "everyone did great but there are only seven spots" spiel and was breaking the news. "Robins, Thomas, Bright, congrats on Chaser. Peakes, Coote, you've got your spots back—oh, stop looking so surprised. Finnigan, welcome to the team. _Yes_ , Seamus, I'm not joking. You're our new Keeper.

"And I'll be taking on Seeker," she concluded, giving them all a warm smile. "Thanks to everyone who came out—don't be discouraged if you didn't get a spot. There's always next year."

With Quidditch business sorted out, Harry and Ginny locked up the Bludgers, Quaffle, and Snitch and returned them to the shed. The afternoon sun was fighting past the heavy clouds as they crossed the lawns and headed into the castle.

"I'll see you at dinner, alright? I should get to work on my DADA homework," Harry said as they began to climb the grand staircase. It was a bold lie; he had no homework from Aberforth. Rather, he planned on making some headway in the PTSD research. "Think I'll find Hermione so she can help me—"

He broke off when she suddenly seized him by the front of his jacket and shoved him through a half-open doorway. His back hit a shelf. As she kicked the door shut, he realized that she'd pushed him into a broom cupboard. "Ginny, what are you—"

He was interrupted again, this time by her mouth finding his desperately. Harry stiffened at the impact but soon relaxed into the familiarity of it. He was used to the feeling of her, her size and stature and warm skin, and it was mechanical to put a hand on the small of her back and let the other fit itself to her hip. The force she was using to throw herself at him was definitely outmatching his robotic response; after a moment of the imbalance, she pulled away, panting. 

"So, what was this about, again?" he asked, similarly out of breath. 

"We're getting the passion back," she said throatily. "We're going back to how we used to be. We're going to be Harry and Ginny again." 

_Harry and Ginny again._ He was reminded of the days following the battle, when they were a power couple, regarded almost reverently. Wizarding radio programs and Skeeter-esque articles speculated endlessly about the Boy Who Lived and his spitfire prize, anticipating marriage announcements and the looks of future children. Harry had ignored it. Now, he wondered what Ginny thought of it.

He tried to recall "Harry and Ginny" as they were in their Hogwarts days—stealing away into broom closets just like this, plucking touches and glances from each other around corners and in alcoves. Back then he had been drawn to her like moth to flame; back then he couldn't have stayed away from her if she was a deadly poison. There had been a current that ran between them every time their skin came together.

His hands clutched her arms hesitantly, curiously, but the current he'd once felt was no longer present. He dropped his hands to his sides. 

"Maybe today's not the right day," he said lamely, thankful for the darkness as it hid his face. 

Even without sufficient lighting he knew her expression fell, knew that her shoulders hardened even against her disappointment. She stepped back, away from him. "Maybe. I'll see you around, Harry." 

Light poured in from the corridor as she made her exit, catching on her shock of red hair before the door shut again and left him in darkness. He gripped the edge of the shelf and waited, counting footsteps in his head until he was certain she was far from him, and then he left as well. 

Another strike against him in their relationship. Another reason for them to step back and evaluate what they were, if they even were anything; but he knew they wouldn't. He was a bloody coward and she wanted it to work. And so they would stick with it to the end.

* * *

Hermione could sense that he was distracted when he returned to the common room, barely turning the pages of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ from where he sat on the couch. She fixed him with a knowing look.

"Harry, what's wrong? You seem agitated." 

"It's nothing, Hermione—"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, come off it. I know you. Has something happened?" 

"Not really," he said truthfully. "The opposite, actually. Nothing's happened at all." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Positive," he said, shutting the book with finality. 

"Wonderful!" She sat up brightly. "Then you should certainly be up for a trip to the hospital wing." 

No amount of groaning on Harry's part could discourage her from the task at hand. With exaggerated reluctance, he let her lead him from the common room and down the stairs, all the while shoving down a hint of anxiety that started to grow at the thought of an actual mediwitch examining him. 

The hospital wing's windows were all thrown open when they arrived, the afternoon sun inking across the stone floors in thick blocks of yellow. Term was still fresh, so the beds were all made up and empty, just waiting for a poor student to happen across them. At their arrival, Madame Pomfrey emerged from her office quizzically. 

"Already, Potter? Barely a week into school! What have the two of you gotten into so soon?" 

"It's nothing to do with school, Madame Pomfrey," Hermione explained, her hands twisting together nervously. "We came for some... professional medical advice."

Madame Pomfrey's eyebrows shot up. "I should hope you two are not in need of contraceptive magic—" 

"Oh, no, nothing like that!" Hermione's face went beet red while Harry could only splutter incoherently. "Really, we're not, er, doing anything of that nature!" 

"Really," Harry echoed, barely able to keep his jaw from swinging open. 

"Hm." Madame Pomfrey's lips tightened but she accepted their assurance. "Better step into the office, then."

They shuffled into her cramped office. Students' medical records were stuffed into filing cabinets along the walls, and above them, high shelves held all manner of potions and powders that stood ready for Pomfrey's command. Harry and Hermione squeezed into two chairs in front of the desk while the mediwitch took her seat behind it. 

"Well, get on with it, Granger." 

Hermione launched into the explanation with her usual eloquence, beginning with the immediate aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts and then segueing into the nightmares. Harry was glad to sit back and let her handle the talking; he felt bashful under Pomfrey's scrutiny. 

"So we're here to ask if there's anything we can do, from a magical perspective," Hermione concluded, a little breathless. "We've heard of a Muggle disease that fits the bill, but we haven't come across a wizard equivalent." 

Madame Pomfrey regarded them silently for a tense moment, steepling her fingers. "This is very serious, perhaps more so than you realize."

They shared a nervous look as she chose her next words. "What you two are describing is a textbook example of a wizarding illness called Distress-Triggered Concentration of Energy: DTCE, for short." 

Hermione's brow furrowed, the scholar in her coming out. "I haven't read about this in any of my books." 

"It's not a well-known disease and many mediwizards deny its plausibility," she explained. "Because it cannot be physically detected by any type of scan, some dismiss its severity, thinking of it less as a disease and more as a string of unrelated mental sufferings." 

"But you think differently," Hermione surmised. 

"Indeed, I do." Madame Pomfrey flicked her wand. A filing cabinet opened to their left, parchment flapping as if under some violent wind, until a folder burst out and landed squarely on the desk. The drawer shut again as the mediwitch opened the folder and riffled through the file. "Having dealt with children for some time, I've seen my fair share of trauma, and I wholeheartedly believe that DTCE is very real and very dangerous." 

She seemed to find what she was looking for, because she selected a piece of parchment and slid it across the desk towards them. A diagram of the body and small print covered the page, too tiny for Harry to read without squinting, but he caught words like _trauma_ and _focal point_ in the block of text. 

"You see, when wizards are seriously injured, their magic can sometimes come to their aid and heal their wounds, as their magical core is just as much a part of them as their brain and heart. But in the case of Distress-Triggered Concentration of Energy, when the damage is purely mental, the magical core becomes confused. It attempts to help, but unfortunately does the opposite—raw magic becomes concentrated in the brain, leading to the types of dreams that you described and sometimes visions or flashbacks." 

"Is there a cure?" Harry asked, bringing a hand up to touch his temple. 

"I can't simply give you a potion or a spell to relieve the concentration." Pomfrey withdrew a second page and handed it over. "The minimal research into the subject has thus far concluded that the only way to cure DTCE is through meditation." 

Harry felt his hopes sink; it was exactly what their research into post-traumatic stress disorder had turned up. 

"However," Madame Pomfrey continued, "I can assist you in reaching the optimal meditative state, but from there, healing is in your hands." 

"We'll take any help we can get." 

Pomfrey went to a shelf and plucked a purple bottle down, holding it up for them to see. "Draught of the Wakeful Dead. Unlike its sister, the Draught of the Living Dead, this potion assists its user in achieving a deep sleep and control of their dreams." 

Harry accepted the bottle, watching dark bubbles rise to the surface of the brew. Pomfrey cautioned them: "This potion is nothing to take lightly. Overdose can have nasty effects, so you must be careful to take no more than a spoonful every three days."

"We understand," Hermione assured her. Harry nodded as he tucked the bottle into his pocket.

"You will notice a change in your dreams when under the potion's control," the mediwitch continued. "You will have a measure of free will, to be exact. The goal is to find the root of your trauma, the answer lying within your subconscious."

It was a daunting task to be sure, but Harry was simply glad to have a plan. Madame Pomfrey wished them luck and bid them goodbye, demanding bi-weekly updates on their progress, and they left the hospital wing in resolute silence. 

"Will we take it tonight, then?" Harry asked.

They rounded another corner, Hermione humming thoughtfully. "Suppose we ought to give it a try."

Before bed that night, they met in the common room, huddling together by the far wall. Harry shuttled the bottle out of his trousers and uncorked it. A smell like a low flame rose from the brew, increasing as he poured some onto a spoon. 

"Here goes," he said bravely. He tipped the draught back and swallowed roughly.

The potion had a heavy, sweet quality, lingering on his tongue after it hit his stomach. A wave of drowsiness washed over him. Handing the potion and spoon over, he blinked rapidly. "It's working, alright."

"I should hope so." Hermione took her dose briskly, practically staggering when the tiredness struck her. "Oh, my."

Harry stifled a yawn. "Let's get upstairs before we drop right here."

It was no simple task, but Harry managed to get upstairs to his bed without falling unconscious along the way. He struggled to keep his eyes open as he changed into pajamas and slid under his blanket. The draught seemed to gurgle in satisfaction. Within seconds, the warm embrace of drugged sleep pulled him under.


End file.
